


Something Shattered

by Thoughtstream



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Collars, Guilt, Humiliation, I'm Bad At Tagging, Imprisonment, Introspection, Loki Angst, Loki-centric, Non-Sexual Submission, Pain, Psychological Torture, Punishment, Recovery, Self-Worth Issues, Snarky Jarvis, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has A Heart, frostiron may become a thing, why does writing this make me happy?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 71,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thoughtstream/pseuds/Thoughtstream
Summary: Loki is given to S.H.I.E.L.D as a prisoner after the events of the first Avengers movie. With his magic bound and his body in a near-mortal state he is tortured until he breaks and then tortured again. Finally Nick Fury is made aware of the situation and he turns to everyone's favorite billionaire: Tony Stark. And that's how Tony is suckered into allowing a damaged Norse God into his tower as his prisoner/servant. You can imagine what follows.Basically I like writing angsty pieces and delving into the psychological states of people in pain. And bringing egos low. This may eventually turn into frostiron; I'm open to suggestions on that front!





	1. Thirst

            **Hi! Just a couple of notes here. The first few chapters will probably be very spare in dialogue. It's a lot of internal narration and physical description. That will change later in the story, when there are actually other characters for Loki to talk to, but I just wanted to give a heads up. Also, in case the tags weren't enough, there is going to be pain and humiliation and descriptions of torture. And it's not over quickly. (Nothing sexual happening in this fic though, at least not at the moment) You've been warned. Enjoy!**        

 

            It had been weeks now. He was fairly sure anyway. It was difficult to tell. It felt more like years.

            He didn’t open his eyes when they came into his cell. Maybe they would leave if he didn’t respond. Maybe this time. Even though that had never happened.

            One of them grabbed his wrist, the one that was manacled to the cell wall. They slipped a new manacle on and unattached him from the wall in order to bind his wrists together. Then they pulled him to his feet. The wave of nausea would have rolled him back onto the cot but they were already dragging him forward. _Not again. It hadn’t been long enough. He hadn’t even been fed._

            His thoughts remained thoughts rather than real protests. He let them yank him down the glaring white hallways. He’d never seen other prisoners, but there must be others, to have so many hallways. He wondered if they were treated as he was. The cruel part of him, the tiny sliver still seething in its helpless anger, hoped that there were others suffering as he was suffering. The larger, softer part of him hoped that he was alone. No one deserved this.

            They stopped before an unmarked steel door and he could feel himself shaking. They opened the door and pulled him inside, then shoved him into the chair in the center of the room and began snapping down the bindings. They came up beside his head. After fastening the strap around his neck they removed his gag. The special Asgardian gag that Thor had so kindly provided them with. It was almost a relief being able to move his jaw, open his mouth. Except he knew what was coming. They didn’t want to hear him speak. But they loved to hear him scream.

            They began placing diodes on his skin and he tried not to watch. Not to tremble. None of the tortures were pleasant, but he hated this one particularly. The smell of his flesh burning. The sparks of light. And the reminder of his brother, whose actions had lead him here.

            He tried to get himself angry. To burn everything away with his rage. But it was harder and harder to do that, the longer they kept him here. The rage was seeping away from him as his hands shook, clutching at the armrests. His masked captors double-checked the straps and must have found them satisfactory. He watched as they gave the signal and someone in another room flipped a switch. And he screamed.

 

 

            When they dragged him back out of the room he couldn’t even pretend he was walking of his own free will. They held him under each arm and his feet dragged across the floor. He could feel new pain rising in his ankles but it was far away. His head hung from his limp neck and he was powerless to raise it. He watched the white tiles smear past. He watched spittle fall from his open lips.

            They brought him to his cell and heaved him onto his cot and he screamed as his body hit the mattress but he was so hoarse that it was hardly a sound. They undid the manacles and reattached him to the cell wall. They left without putting the gag back on. His voice was ruined.

            He wanted to get a drink of water from the sink, but he couldn’t move. His muscles kept twitching spasmodically, and every twitch burned. The red marks of the diodes took longer to fade every time.

            He healed so quickly at the beginning. He would taunt them, when they removed the gag, pointing out the fruitlessness of their actions. But his magic was smothered in the black runes his false father had scorched into his wrists. And his physiology only allowed for so much.

            They had dropped from feeding him twice a day to feeding him once a day. They had begun torturing him longer and more viciously. He had stopped being able to sleep through the night. And it had all lead to this. His skin covered in red welts, his muscles twitching without his volition, and his stomach forming an angry void beneath his abdomen.

            He curled up on his side. He was fine. He was strong. He was a _god_! He could endure more than this. A few mortals would not break him, he who had lived for centuries before they had even begun mewling at their mothers’ breasts!

            For a moment he believed it. Then his stomach began to ache again and it had been so long since he had eaten now, longer than before. He knew that. He could still keep the hours in his head. He might confuse weeks, but never days. Were they trying to starve him?

            He shuddered. It would take a very long time, but it would kill him eventually. He didn’t think they wanted him dead though. They took so much pleasure in his screams.

            He forced himself to sit up and then, after a moment of rest, to drag himself to the sink and drink from cupped hands. The water did not fill his stomach the way it wanted to be filled. And it was lukewarm, never cold. But it felt good in his mouth, on his throat. It tasted so good.

            After a few minutes he finally stopped and stumbled back to his cot. He was pleased with mere access to water now. That wasn’t good. He was slipping. He should be furious still. He hated them. S.H.I.E.L.D and the Avengers and the Asgardians. He wanted to crush them. He wanted to tear them apart over and over again. Do to them what they had done to him.

            But anger took too much energy. And suddenly the door to his cell was opening and it was even sooner than before. He realized he had pressed himself back against the cement wall reflexively. But they were ignoring him. They went over to the sink instead. He watched as they turned some screws, removed the exposed chunk of pipe and then capped over the hole in the wall, sealing it in place.

            “What are you doing?” He tried to ask. But it came out as a jagged whisper and they didn’t react and he wasn’t sure if it was because they hadn’t heard him or because it was him saying it and nothing he said mattered to them.

            They left his cell. His mouth was still dry and his throat still ached. He stumbled back to the sink and turned the tap. Nothing. Not even a droplet of leftover moisture. He fell back onto his cot. He was trembling again. How long could he last without water? Food he had gone without for days in the past. The long campaigns with his cursed brother had taught him a little of those limits. But water… His stomach grumbled again but there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do…

 

 

            His body ached. No one had come for him, even though he expected it. The clockwork machine of his time here had broken down and he no longer knew what they were doing. It had been so orderly before. Now he was just alone. With no food. And no water.

            His tongue felt swollen in his mouth. How long were they going to keep this up? How long did they think he could last? They hadn’t done their research before they took charge of him. He knew that much. It had taken them days to amp up the torture enough that he was actually suffering. And more to find the consistency that wore him down until even his godly healing abilities couldn’t recover him entirely between sessions.

            Now the nausea in his head was constant and he couldn’t stop shaking. He felt cold. And he almost never felt cold. Because he was jotun. A monster. He shook his head. His captors hadn’t used that against him. They couldn’t. The all-father’s magic kept his form the way it had been his entire life. Pale skinned, with ebony hair and green eyes. They couldn’t take that from him. And he refused to torture himself.

            He tried to think of something else. But then all he could think of was his thirst.

 

 

 

            It had been another day. They had not come for him. He felt his body caving in on itself. And he realized that there _was_ water to be had. He just hadn’t wanted to think of it. The toilet in the far corner of his cell.

            It was wrong. His mind rebelled against the idea the moment he had it. But the thirst would not go away. He thought of pounding on his cell door but he knew they wouldn’t respond. And he wouldn’t lower himself to that kind of desperation.

            His eyes found the camera at the front of his cell. They were watching him. They wouldn’t let him die. Would they? He couldn’t know for sure. And if they would, then why not let them do it? It could be over. They couldn’t touch him, once he had finally slipped from this prison of a body that was crumbling around him. He could be free.

            He lay on the cot, perfectly still. Except for his fingers. They wouldn’t stop trembling. He wouldn’t lower himself in front of them. He was strong. He was a god. He was thirsty.

 

 

 

            He wasn’t just thirsty anymore. He was thirst incarnate. It had ceased being a feeling contained to his mouth and throat and had now consumed his entire body. His muscles felt tight and shrunken and his legs kept forming knots that hurt so much he had to bite his lip to stay silent. His eyes were so dry that it hurt to keep them open.

            Wasn’t it enough? Weren’t they satisfied with his suffering yet? He knew the answer. They wanted him broken. It wasn’t enough that he was weak, exhausted. That he was in so much pain that his lip was bleeding from his biting it. They wanted him on his knees before them. He knew that now. He had denied it for a long time. He had pretended that they wanted information, to use him. Or that they just wanted him to suffer for his crimes. But they wanted more than that. Or they wouldn’t be doing this to him.

            He wanted to fight it but he couldn’t focus anymore. He stared into the camera again. He opened his cracked and bloody lips. He whispered, “Please.”

 

 

 

            It wasn’t enough. They wouldn’t give in. And he had to. He felt as if he was burning from the inside out. He rolled off the cot and onto the ground and he was shaking so hard that he couldn’t move for a moment, writhing on the cold cement. The chain on his wrist made horrible sounds as it jumped along the floor, following his frantic movements. Finally, breathing deeply, he collected himself again.

            He crawled over to the toilet. His heart raced much faster than it should have. He felt sick. For a long time he sat against the wall beside it. He could feel the camera’s gaze on him. But it was too late now. He had indicated what he was going to do. They weren’t going to burst in now and interrupt. They weren’t going to back down and say it had been enough, pushing him to this edge. They wanted him to fall off the cliff.

            He couldn’t fight them anymore. His eyes were burning and his mouth felt as if it were full of sand. Breathing hurt. Swallowing hurt even worse. His tongue was swollen to twice its normal size. He leaned against the cold stainless steel and dropped his hand inside. And drank.

 

 

            They still didn’t come. Even when it was over. Even when he had crawled back to his cot, still shaking. He realized that he wanted to cry. That he might have already started if he hadn’t been so dehydrated that his eyes had stopped forming proper tears. There had been relief. But as soon as he finished drinking shame had swallowed him whole.

            And his stomach still ached, empty, tight as a drum. He lay on the cot and closed his eyes and tried to leave the prison, escape into his own mind. He had slept as much as possible, since they started this game of starvation, but he could only sleep so much before his consciousness refused to reenter the dream realm.

            He reached for his magic, though he knew it was useless. The runes formed a wall of darkness through which he could just see the green glow of his power. He called to it and for a moment the green flared brighter. He pulled and pulled, but the longer he stayed the more the darkness began to awaken, reaching out towards him. Where it touched his consciousness it stung and burned and he knew the pain would get worse if he stayed. So he stopped calling to his magic and instead just watched it. He could see only a tiny flicker but he knew it was all still there, beyond the darkness. A vast ocean of green that was once his to control.

            He missed it. Sometimes he dreamt that he had it back. He decimated this facility and slaughtered every masked man he met in its many halls. Then he lit it with green fire and watched it burn. The dream wasn’t very convincing though. For one thing he didn’t know what the outside of this facility looked like. They had blindfolded him and sent him to it on a series of Midgardian transport vehicles soaked in the acrid tinge of petrol. He hadn’t been allowed to see again until he was standing in this very cell. It felt like a long time ago now.

            And though he wanted to escape, a part of him was uncertain. What would he do with freedom if he had it? The answer had always been revenge. He hadn’t thought out his plan to defeat the Avengers with the Chitauri. He had been angry, irrational. He could think of many options now that would be more elegant and merciless. But S.H.I.E.L.D was learning from him, from this torture. And if he failed his next attempt at a coup he had no doubt he would be back here. Again. It seemed futile.

            He shook himself. He was Loki! God of Mischief! He could kill a mortal with the snap of his fingers! He could survive even the green beast’s rampage! If he escaped, no, _when_ he escaped, he would get his revenge and he would destroy S.H.I.E.L.D and the Avengers. There would be no one left to pester him and certainly no one able to torture him. He would crush them all.

            He almost smiled. Almost. But then his stomach cramped up and his eyes opened to the blank gray of his cell again. He had to survive this first. And he had to escape. With no magic and no outside help. The surety he had felt just moments ago slid away.

He was trapped here, helpless. They took him whenever they wanted and tried all sorts of innovative tortures on him. So far they had not been as brutal as he had half expected. The starvation was new and horrifying. But they had not yet really cut into him. Had not yet broken bones or rendered him unconscious with pain. He was beginning to think it was only a matter of time. The longer he stayed the worse things got. He had to think of a way out soon. Before he lost the small spark inside of him that kept him clinging to that hope.

 

 

            For five days his cell door did not open. He was exhausted, though altogether not feeling too horrible. This was the longest they’d gone without actively torturing him. He’d examined every inch of the cell, looking for weaknesses. He hadn’t found a single crack. He’d also examined his cot and its potential for smashing his way out of the cell. But he knew he would break the cot before he broke the wall, let alone the door, which was five inches of solid metal. He’d also thought about rushing his captors when they came for him, but he had tested the chains on his manacles quite thoroughly. They were thick, heavy, and brand new. They would not break. He could attack his captors, but he would still be trapped in these halls. He didn’t know the way out and he knew there were more metal doors at the ends of each hall. And in an escape he would have only minutes until reinforcements arrived. It would not end well for him.

          So he sat in the cell, thinking of other things. It was lonely, but he was used to loneliness, so it was more peaceful than anything. The situation with his water supply was still upsetting. He just tried not to think about anymore. He wondered if they’d really let him starve. They would have to wait a very long time. And he didn’t really understand how it would benefit them to let him linger instead of just executing him.

         All feelings of hunger had vanished and been replaced with a vague emptiness and a dizziness that rose when he moved. Not that he moved much. His cell was only large enough for his cot, the toilet, and the sink, with a four foot strip of exposed cement flooring that stretched from his cot to the opposite wall. When he’d first arrived he would exercise for a few hours every day. Now he was trying to conserve his energy.

         He wondered how long he’d last if they starved him to the end. 40 days? Mere mortals could last that long. Perhaps 70. That was not unheard of amongst mortals either. 100 days would be a solid guess. His metabolism, though normally much faster than a mortal’s, was also more flexible. Allowing for a very long and slow process of withering away.

            On the ninth day since he’d eaten, the cell door opened. He watched as two captors came in. They had no copper pipe, so they weren’t going to fix his sink. Instead they approached his cot. He wanted to back away, but there was nowhere to go. They manacled his wrists together, freeing him from the cell wall. He was trembling so hard that they actually squeezed his arm to keep him still as they put the cuffs on. They were going to torture him. While he was starving.

            He couldn’t tell his captors apart. They wore the same black uniforms with black masks that covered their faces, a reflective sheen giving away the location of their eyes. He almost asked them for mercy. Almost. But he doubted that it would matter. And he still had pride somewhere. It had been part of what got him into this mess. Pride. He hadn’t lost it all yet. That was their job. To make him lose it all. He shivered as they pulled him upright. He still wanted to win this game. But he wasn’t sure that he could anymore.

 

**So. What'd you think? Good, bad, indifferent? Let me know in the comments! I already have a few more chapters planned and should be updating again in a week or two!**


	2. Downward Spiral

**I'm glad some of you are enjoying this darkness. Thanks for the positive feedback! This chapter isn't quite as smooth as I might wish but it's important story-building, and of course, fun wallowing in poor Loki's misery.**

 

            He had lost track of how long it had been since he’d eaten. He had trouble keeping track in general. Time seemed fluid and strange. Things slid past his brain without him noticing. Except pain. His body kept wonderful track of the pain inflicted upon it.

Drowning. Electrocution. Oxygen deprivation. The Rack. The Scavenger’s Daughter. Whipping. Knife play. Bastinado. Sometimes the guards stopped by his cell to kick and slap him around for a while, just as a change of pace.

            They still hadn’t gotten around to breaking bones yet. He assumed it was only a matter of time. Or perhaps they wouldn’t do that while he was starving. After all, damage done to bone while he was in a state of starvation would be much more devastating. And they seemed to prefer that he remain relatively intact. So they could take him back and make him scream anew.

            They didn’t put the gag back on him. He had a feeling it was related to the starvation. They wanted to make sure he felt the emptiness of his mouth and stomach, even if his brain had given up on sending signals of hunger. They also wanted him to continue drinking, though he avoided it as much as possible.

            He wasn’t broken yet. But he was… not whole either. Cracked maybe. He had asked for mercy now. Several times. Mostly in unintelligible screams. But a few times in whispers, between torture sessions. They ignored it. Or maybe they smirked. He couldn’t see their faces after all.

            The one thing they never did was talk to him. None of them ever talked. He missed speech. Even from dull mortals. Even if it had been only insults. Then he could at least respond. To this there could be no response. It was as though they were machines, merely carrying out their daily tasks.

            Maybe they were. Maybe Stark had designed them especially for him. He could believe that.

            He was more certain that his hypothesis was correct now though: they wanted him to break. Otherwise they would’ve introduced an element of questioning by now. But they didn’t want information. They wanted his pain as an apology to their race for the suffering he had caused.

            He thought that they had equaled it by now. He had killed mortals yes, but in very quick and relatively painless ways. Surely he had experienced as much pain as his victims? Victims he hadn’t even wanted to take, for the most part. He only wanted to subjugate the humans. The only humans he had _really_ tried to hurt were the Avengers and the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D and he hadn’t been all that successful.

            Yet in his dreams the dead haunted him. Accused him. Laughed while he was tortured. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care. He was a monster. A being of Jotunheim. Murder didn’t bother him. The suffering of others didn’t bother him. He had a heart of ice. A soul that sought only destruction.

            The only problem was that when he thought such things Frigga would appear in his dreams and she always looked so disappointed. Her anguish stung, even though she was not his mother. She could never be the mother of a monster. She deserved a better son.

            He tried to throw himself from that train of thought. The citizens of Asgard had never loved him. Not even when they had thought he was one of them. They were violent and lustful, hateful and spiteful, self-righteous and smug. They were like his golden brother, Thor, who was, despite all the aforementioned traits, gifted with a weapon of immeasurable power. What was Loki left with? Magic. The art of liars and thieves.  An art befitting a dishonorable monster…

            It was swallowing him again. The pit of self-loathing that he had never quite emerged from after he discovered his true nature. After he had fallen from the Bifrost... He couldn’t afford to do this right now. He needed every scrap of sanity to keep from breaking. He needed his mind to be a refuge from the raw and stinging pain of his body.

            He looked down at his naked torso. He had thought it was bad when the red welts of the diodes had lingered on his skin. Now he was a beautiful mottle of colors. Purple and green and yellow. Raised lines curving where their knives had dipped into his skin. His back, he knew, was a maze of red cuts and gashes from the whip. He wouldn’t scar. His body would close the skin again seamlessly. But they would simply open new cuts.

            He shivered. He was cold again. The hunger, taking its toll. If he wasn’t paying attention he would begin thinking about food. About how much he wanted to eat and what he would eat if he could have anything. Even though the sensation of hunger had left him, the urge to eat remained.

           He tried to think of other things, but he couldn’t get away from his own discomfort. He was cold and stinging and sore and his head felt like a lead weight and they still hadn’t fixed his sink. He closed his eyes and tried for the dubious relief of sleep, hoping that he wouldn’t find himself back inside that room, tortured by phantoms. He hoped in vain.

 

 

            He had thought that Asgardians were cruel. But now he realized that they did not have the creativity for true cruelty. A part of him almost admired humanity’s inventiveness. The rest of him was simply seething.

            They had put the gag back on him for the first time in quite a while. He didn’t struggle with his captors anymore. That only lead to more pain. He let them pull the metal gag around his lips, tightening it just to the point of discomfort. But instead of taking him out of his cell as he expected them to do, they rolled something in: an array of covered silver dishes on a cart.

            The smell hit him immediately. His mouth flooded with saliva. They opened the dishes one by one. Steaks and mashed potatoes and gravy and carrots and green beans and stuffing and hot rolls with butter. It smelled heavenly and his entire body was quivering with the urge to feast.

            But he was wearing the gag. Nothing could pierce the enchanted gag. Not even water. This was simply a new form of torture.

            He stared at the food. It was so perfect that it looked fake. Only the smell convinced him that it was actually there. The captors stood behind the cart, watching him. He was glad they couldn’t see him drooling. He couldn’t take his eyes from it but he held himself to the cot; getting closer would only make it worse.

            He wondered if they would let him have any of it. Even just a tiny bit. He looked at the reflective strip where their eyes were. He tried to plead with his gaze. Nothing. He was breathing heavily. The smell was intoxicating and he couldn’t get away from it.

            He tried, for the first time in a long time, to speak around the gag. He was begging and he knew it but he couldn’t stop himself. He needed food. He _needed_ it. He knew they could see his cheeks moving as he attempted to speak, but he also knew that no sound could escape the magic of the gag.

            He reached out to touch the food. He couldn’t stop himself. Immediately they swatted his hand away. He wasn’t even allowed to touch it. _Please_. He kept repeating beneath the gag. _Please_.

            He realized suddenly that there were other ways to beg. He didn’t want to beg at all. As a prince of Asgard such behavior was entirely beneath him. _Persuasion_ was sometimes acceptable, even necessary in politics, but what he was considering was not persuasion. His lips and tongue were locked away, off the table, along with all civilized forms of bargaining.

           He wanted to tear his captors to pieces and then devour everything in his sight. But he couldn't do that any more than he could use his tongue to persuade them. And he was starving. The smell had snapped something inside him and it took most of his willpower not to try plunging his hands into the mashed potatoes and getting them as close to his lips as he could.

            He had been sitting on his cot but now he stood and came over to his captors, who didn’t move. They weren’t afraid of him anymore. In the beginning they had avoided touching him or coming too near him in his cell, behaving as if he might strike (And he had, in the beginning. He had broken one of their arms once. And then paid dearly for it. ). Now they simply watched him. He tried pleading with his eyes and then waited. No response.

            Finally he committed. Loki lowered himself to his knees before them and raised his hands in supplication, putting himself in the same position in which he had once watched criminals approach Odin at his throne. He shook with anger and shame. But he needed food, wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. They wouldn’t let him use his silver tongue. They wanted abasement, not eloquence. He made his gaze as pitiful as possible as he stared into the blankness of their masks. For several moments nothing happened. His knees began to ache on the cold cement. He felt hollow. Small. They watched him without any sign of emotion.

            Then at some unspoken signal they began closing the dishes, one by one. They pushed the cart back out and he wanted to weep as the door closed behind them. The thought of a feast like that going away untouched, wasted as he starved inches from relief, was maddening. The smell of it lingered in his cell, an added element of torture.

            He moved back to his cot. They had left the gag on and his mouth tasted of metal, not even a hint of the lovely things still scenting the air. He could picture the entire meal perfectly in his mind. He could feel the crack inside himself widening.

 

 

            An hour later, they came back. They were holding a bowl that steamed in the cold air of his cell. It smelled of meat.

           The captor who was not holding the bowl came up to him and removed his gag. The one with the bowl came closer and handed it to him. For a moment he eyed them with suspicion. But he had nothing to lose and it smelled wonderful. Not as good as the feast they had tortured him with, but good nonetheless. His hands were shaking so badly he could hardly bring the bowl to his lips.

            It was the best thing he had ever tasted. He was sure of it. Sweet and salty and umami flavors rolled across his tongue. There were miniscule chunks of carrot and beef in it, not even large enough to chew, which was good because his tongue and teeth seemed strangely unaccustomed to handling more than water.

            The bowl was large but not large enough. As he drew near the bottom of it he slowed, trying to make the taste linger in his mouth, prolong the joyful explosion in his brain in praise of calories not derived from his own flesh. He swished the broth around his mouth, savoring each mouthful. But still he had reached the empty bottom of the bowl in moments and he couldn’t keep himself from licking the plastic, trying to get every drop even as he tried not to imagine what he looked like doing so.

            He was sated when he finished and he thought it was the best sensation he’d ever felt. He offered the bowl gingerly back to his captors. “Thank you.” He couldn’t stop himself from saying it. Even though he knew they didn’t deserve politeness. They tortured him. They placed food before a starving man and made sure he couldn’t taste it. They were only rewarding him for begging. For letting the crack they’d made grow deeper.

            But he thanked them anyway. Because what if he didn’t and they just went back to starving him? What if every day they brought him the cart of food and just watched him stare, ignoring any pleas he tried to make? Maybe this would be enough for them. He had begged and he had thanked them for listening to his begging. It made him slightly nauseous.

            The captors left the cell, taking the empty bowl. He lay back on his cot and for the first time in ages he felt sleepy instead of exhausted, his stomach still warm, his mouth full of the taste of broth. He closed his eyes and fell into a long and dreamless sleep.

 

 

            They resumed feeding him after that. Once a day. Or once every two days. There was no pattern in it and he was certain it was purposeful. They gave him disappointment to make him grateful when they did feed him. In some ways it was worse than when they’d been starving him. The little meals only made the hunger pangs return even more strongly when his stomach was empty again. But he couldn’t stop himself from eating. He couldn’t deny himself the one semi-pleasurable activity left in his life. Even sleep was now more often a cage than an escape. And in his sleep the pain was almost worse, his captors even more creative…

            Reality, however, seemed intent on matching the dreamworld. His captors were amping up the torture. He wasn’t breaking fast enough. It didn’t matter that his throat was constantly raw from screaming. That the wounds on his body no longer healed before they inflicted new ones. He was still fighting them and they hated it. He took pleasure in that, the knowledge that he was making them angry enough to hurt him even more. Sick pleasure but it was pleasure nonetheless.

            Some time after feeding resumed they began breaking bones. He’d expected it, but that didn’t really prepare him. They put a block of wood between his legs and then took a sledgehammer to each of his feet, snapping his ankles like twigs. His screams were impressive. It was the most intense pain he’d ever felt, enough to make his vision swim, his entire body seizing up, frozen.

            He’d found that without his magic and with the All-Father’s sentence reducing his healing factor until he had only slightly better than a mortal response to injury, pain was much more formidable. His body seemed more sensitive to the blows. Perhaps it was only the change in time that made it seem so. He used to begin healing as soon as a wound was inflicted. He had never experienced the lingering soreness and ugliness of a bruise. But now precious seconds were wasted as his body scrambled to start healing and that gave him longer to fully feel each new affliction. Change in reaction time meant a change in the amount of pain he experienced. At least, that was his theory on why he was so much more sensitive. All he really knew was that he’d broken bones before in his life and it had never hurt this much. Nor had it taken so long for him to heal.

            For days he crawled around his cell, unable to stand, terrified that his bones would knit badly and give him a permanent limp. His captors weren’t careful when they dragged him from his cell in that state and the fresh screams they drew from him, while not as impressive as the initial ones, echoed down the hallways.

            In a different session they broke all of the fingers on his left hand one at a time, breaking each of the two largest bones. Snap, snap, like beans into a bucket. It wasn’t more painful than the ankles but it was worse in that it was extended. The moments of waiting made the pain that much worse. He curled the wounded hand to his chest when they were finished. It looked less like a hand, more like some scraggly bush with broken black and blue branches. When he was returned to his cell he made himself scream again as he moved his shattered fingers back into position so they could heal.

            His hand had just returned to normal when they tried out a crushing device that broke several of his ribs by the time they were done. It was worse than anything they’d done before. The intense feeling of claustrophobia, the frantic need to move and being unable to so much as twitch, the slow collapsing of his ribcage beneath the weight…

            There were cracks everywhere inside him now. He started flinching when they came for him. He couldn’t help it. Their arrival meant pain. More and more pain.

            They had started playing recordings now, as he was tortured. A robotic monotone listed all of his crimes, went through detail after detail with lots of adjectives about how hideous he was, how vile and pathetic. At first he found the recordings laughable. These were insults that had been hurled at him many times before. But it just never stopped. And he couldn’t argue with it, couldn’t respond to it. It was a recording, endless and unchanging.

           Then one day they quizzed him on it, the first time his captors ever talked to him, in robotic voices distorted through their masks. They asked him to repeat sections of the recordings, in the first person. He ignored them. He would never say such things aloud about himself. Even if sometimes late at night he thought them.

            However, he had already done many things he’d never thought he’d allow himself to do. And after a particularly nasty session in which they took a potato peeler to the skin of his hands, he asked what would happen if he said what they wanted him to say.

            They claimed they would stop the torturing session. He didn’t believe them. And if he broke like that, said such hideous things about himself only to be tortured anyway… He continued in silence. Well, in incoherent screams and groans more accurately.

            Then they brought out the crushing device again. After they had added the third weight they offered him the opportunity once again. He had to escape. He took it. He repeated sentence after sentence about the things he’d done, about how abhorrent and pitiful and unlovable he was. His voice shook and his head hurt, but he did it. He hadn’t even actually known that he had memorized it; he just wanted the pain to stop. But apparently he had gotten the words right or right enough and after a moment they lifted the weights from his chest and he was taken back to his cell.

            He hated the surge of gratitude that filled him. His cheeks burned with shame at the things he had just said. He had tried to make himself sound flippant, sarcastic even, but his voice had come out broken, his tone confessional. As though he believed such things.

            He didn’t though. Not most of them anyway. He resolved never to repeat them again. But when they had lashed his chest and begun placing the weights on, his ribcage creaking, his breath coming in weak gasps, he seized the offer once more, the words tumbling eagerly from his lips. And he realized he would do it again. Shame was easier to bear than pain.

            They didn’t offer him that exchange all the time though and the deal only took place if they offered it to him. They made it clear that he had no bargaining chips. He could free himself with groveling if they allowed him to, not if he simply began groveling of his own volition. Otherwise they’d be giving him a semblance of actual control.

            His captors were still researching, testing him. They continued breaking various bones and coming up with new ways to make him suffer. They had him lie beneath a bucket that dripped acid onto his chest, drip after scream-inducing drip. They pulled his fingernails from their beds one at a time. They electrocuted him for so long that he lost control of his bladder and was rewarded with the haunting sound of robotic laughter.

            He didn’t sleep much anymore. His captors had begun torturing him nearly continuously, waking him in the night to drag him back to the room. And the nightmares he had when he did sleep made him wake to his own screams. They frequently outdid the actual torture.

            He hadn’t regained the weight he’d lost during the starvation period. His ribs and collarbone jutted from his chest. They only allowed him to shower once a week and he knew he stank of sweat and blood; he could feel it congealed on his skin. They seized him after his shower one day and took a pair of scissors to his hair, crudely chopping it short. He couldn’t see how it looked but he knew it couldn’t be good. He felt somehow more naked, seeing the black tendrils lying at his feet.

            He returned to his cell one day and found that they’d removed the cot. The thin mattress lay on the concrete floor over holes where the bolts had been. He was somewhat horrified to realize that he was grateful they hadn’t taken the mattress, though it was only three inches thick. Now when his captors entered the room they towered above him.

            His captors had grown increasingly violent. In the beginning they had been so professional he’d thought they were robots, carting him here and there without anything close to emotion or impulse in their actions. But now they revealed themselves as human. They seemed to enjoy seizing him by his hair to wake him for a trip to the room. They slapped him for looking them in “the eyes” until it became reflexive for him to stare at their feet. Sometimes they would burst into his cell and dump cold water over him, leaving him frantically trying to get it off the mattress as he shivered uncontrollably.

            The flinching was much worse now. He found himself murmuring _sorry_ whenever he felt their eyes upon him. Even though he hadn’t actually done anything. Even though what he wanted to do was eviscerate them.

            He kept trying to think of ways to escape but he always ended up staring at the black runes on his wrists. His torturers had actually sliced over them once and part of him had gotten excited, hoping that some of his magic would leak through the darkness. But it did nothing. The wound even seemed to heal faster than the others, sealing away any hope he ever had.

           

 

 

            He didn’t know how long he’d been at the facility. It felt like an eternity, but he doubted that it was more than a year. He was no closer to escaping than he’d been when he’d first arrived. And he was certainly weaker than when he’d first arrived.

            He flinched at the smallest sounds. He could recite every recording they’d made for him. Sometimes the recordings even played in his dreams. His captors had begun demanding that he beg for his food, whenever they felt like feeding him, which was roughly every three days, and he didn’t hesitate to do so any more.

           He was hungry all the time. Exhausted all the time. In pain all the time. He wanted it to be over. He wanted them to be done with him. But they just kept submitting him over and over to the same tortures and to new ones. They hung him upside down from his ankles and beat him with a baseball bat. They left him in the Scavenger’s Daughter for hours, until every limb was numb and he thought his ribcage had collapsed. They submerged his head in water until he almost fell unconscious. And still they were not satisfied.

            His captors referred to him as ‘worm’ and he answered to it. It was no longer enough to just avoid eye contact. They made him throw himself at their feet when they entered his cell and if he didn’t they kicked him and kicked him and then dragged him to the torture room, kicking his legs out from under him if he attempted to stand and walk.

            They forced him to count his lashes and to thank them for their work. When they felt indecisive they made him choose his torture and though there was no right choice the decisions would plague him hours afterward. If only...

            His captors grew angry that he was using the mattress in his cell and they spent days springing in randomly and punishing him if they found him on it. When they finally found him sleeping on the floor they asked him why he wasn’t using the mattress and slapped him around for being an idiot. They did this on and off for several weeks until at last he began to ask permission to sleep on the mattress. Sometimes they said he could and sometimes they said he couldn’t and he could find no pattern in it but at least they stopped beating him for it.

            He had had bouts of weeping that sprang seemingly out of nowhere, which his captors would then mock him for incessantly. _You are weak. Pathetic_. He could think of nothing but how worthless his life was, how much he just wanted to die. And it didn’t matter that he knew that he was worthless now, that he obeyed his captors in every way that he knew how. The torture only continued.

            He realized that this could go on for centuries. S.H.I.E.L.D was not one person, it was an organization designed to run into perpetuity. He searched his cell again but there was nothing he could use to kill himself. There was nothing to hang himself from, even if he had been able to tie the loose scrub pants he wore (which were slowly dissolving into rags) into a noose. And the sink, since they’d removed that section of pipe, had no pieces of metal which he could loosen and sharpen. He was trapped, trapped, trapped, in the never-ending nightmare of his life.

 

**Well that's a downer of an ending... and yet I enjoyed writing it. Let's not examine what that means too closely. Hope you're still enjoying, let me know in the comments!**


	3. Visiting Hour

**Huge thanks to all the people commenting and giving kudos; consider this your gift for the holidays! It's one of my favorite chapters so far and I hope that it'll be one of your favorites too.**

 

            They had just finished electrocuting him again. His body felt loose and empty. As if he were simply an amalgamation of shocks, pure electricity. Electricity that somehow continued to burn with pain even after the sparks were gone.

            They undid the straps on his limbs and he waited for them to yank him out of the chair. But instead their footsteps retreated. They left. They left the room without him.

            Confusion crept into his still-recovering brain. This was new. He didn’t like it when they did new things. He didn’t like it when they did old things either, but at least he knew what to expect then.

            He stared up at the ceiling. Blank cement with one overly-bright fluorescent light positioned directly above him. One vent in the corner, much too small for him to fit through. He closed his eyes. They must not be done torturing him yet. Something else to try out, something they needed to fetch equipment for maybe. They had already taken the diodes off and he doubted they’d want to bother hooking them up again.

            Whatever they had planned, it wasn’t worth thinking about. It didn’t matter. This was his purpose. To live and to suffer. To obey in order to suffer as little as possible. To escape? If possible. But he didn’t think it was possible anymore.

            The door opened and he didn’t move. His body still felt disjointed, zinging with the aftershocks of his electrocution. His eyes remained closed.

            “You look like shit.”

            His eyes jumped open and he flinched back into the chair, staring directly into the eye of Director Nick Fury. Then he looked immediately down and away. Fury was one of his captors. His captors disliked eye contact from worms like him.

            “No response? No smart retort?”

            He couldn’t remember the last time he heard a non-robotic voice. It was strange. Overly loud and so undeniably unique. He wanted to hear more.

            Loki watched Fury’s feet come closer, his heart beating too quickly. What did Fury want? What _did_ he want? If Loki messed this up he would be in even more pain. He was sure of it. Electrocution was far from the worst thing they did here. Even if it did remind him of his brother… a spark of anger fluttered in his chest, but it died as quickly as it lit. His brother was his opposite. He was good and strong and deserved to live his pain-free life. He was not hideous and abhorrent like Loki.

            Fury spoke, pulling Loki from his thoughts. “I have to say: I’m impressed. They told me they’d made progress but this… this is more than I expected.”

            What was more than he expected? Silence? Had they not shown him the recordings he was sure they had? Of him drinking from a toilet? Of him flattening himself to the floor of his cell at his captors’ feet? Of him begging for mercy in this very chair and being shown none?

            He wanted to ask Fury why he was here, but he was afraid. And angry that he was afraid. But mostly afraid to anger Fury. They would bring out the crushing device for that. Until he couldn’t breathe… couldn’t breathe… couldn’t…

            Fury snapped his fingers and Loki jerked his gaze toward him once more, though not to his face, only as high as his chest. He wouldn’t make that mistake at least. “You’re doing some grade A acting, if this is an act.”

            What did Fury think he was trying to do? What chips did he think Loki had? He had nothing here. He _was_ nothing here. Only pain.

            He couldn’t see Fury’s face, but the tone of his voice changed drastically at his next words. “On your knees. Now.”

            Immediately Loki slid from the chair and knelt at Fury’s feet with his head bowed, hands behind his back. The tile was cold and he shook with the effort of staying upright with his electrified muscles. But he didn’t move as Fury walked around him once in a tight circle.

            “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

            Loki’s heart leapt. This was an opportunity better than any he could have hoped for. “There’s nothing to say. You know what I am. You should kill me.”

            His voice didn’t shake, though it was very hoarse. He wondered if he had kept the hopefulness out of it.

            “Tempting.” Fury’s hand moved beneath his jacket and he pulled out a pistol.

            He aimed it at Loki’s head. Loki couldn’t help it. He moved his forehead to press it against the cold steel of the barrel. Bliss, this was bliss, it was almost his!

            Fury pulled the gun away and tucked it beneath his jacket. “They’ve really done a number on you.”

            Disappointment flooded through him. And _they_? Didn’t he mean _we_ as in S.H.I.E.L.D? His confusion must have shown. Fury answered his unspoken question.

“You think we have agents who are this level of twisted? Your captors are ex-Hydra. Fellow prisoners who have been allowed some… privileges. For good behavior. We have to use the masks to keep them in line, but they do great work.” He could feel Fury examining him. He didn’t glance up, but he imagined an expression of satisfaction on the Director’s face.

            Loki was still kneeling. He hadn’t been told he was allowed to stand. He wondered when he had started waiting for release commands. It was a while ago now. Still, he didn’t move. There was no point. His captors would be back soon. Ex-Hydra captors. It made sense. And yet the information didn’t help him at all.

            Fury left the room without another word. A few minutes later his captors returned and dragged him back to his cell. He wondered what Fury had wanted. The Director had seemed satisfied with the way things were going. With Loki kneeling at his feet. A part of him was furious about that. It should have been the other way around. He was going to make them all kneel.

            But the rest of him was apathetic, if slightly disappointed in Fury’s hesitation in pulling the trigger. He had escaped without extra punishment and that was what mattered. They manacled his wrist to the wall again and left him in peace. Maybe they wouldn’t come back. He closed his eyes as he lowered his head to the cement, as today he had been forbidden to use he mattress. One could hope.

 

 

 

            His captors returned a few hours later, slamming his cell door open. He knew from that alone that they were angry. They accused him of thinking he was better than them, that he was privileged for being allowed to speak to the Director. None of the things he screamed could convince them otherwise. Not even when he tried to tell them that he knew he was pathetic. Not even when he tried to praise them for their work. They just kept throwing him around his cell, smacking him into the cement.

            One of them pulled Loki’s arm behind his back and yanked hard enough that it would have broken, had he been mortal. It was his only consolation. They couldn’t _really_ damage him without their toys. They were only human.

            They finished toying with him and dragged him out of his cell. He didn’t leave the torture room for the next 24 hours.

 

            Fifteen hours in they pressed the crushing device to his chest. His skin was already bloodied from the preceding tortures, raw and stinging. They added weight in the tiniest increments possible, dragging the torture out longer than they ever had before. He begged and begged for them to kill him but they would just adjust the weight, a little more pressure on his chest, a little less air in his lungs.

            When they finally freed him they had broken ribs again and he couldn’t feel any of his limbs. They unstrapped him and he slid from the chair onto the tile, unable to stop himself. He lay on the floor, in so much pain that the room was swimming.

            One of them shoved their boot beside his face. They claimed they would stop the torture if he licked it. Cleaned their shoes with his tongue. But the anger was still inside him somewhere, somehow. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. He’d rather die. In fact he wanted them to kill him. But they wouldn’t. Instead they picked him up and threw him back on the chair and began again.

         

             For the first time he lost track of even the hours. He thought he couldn’t scream anymore and while it was true that he couldn’t make a sound his vocal chords did their best to scream anyway. His mouth was full of blood torn from his raw throat. His entire body was screaming with pain.

            They finally undid the straps and once more he fell from the chair onto the blessed coolness of the tile. He could feel his blood dripping onto it. From the whipping. The cutting. The burning. It all mingled together in his head now.

            The boot reappeared in his line of vision. This time its heel pressed into his chest, the sole hovering over his face. He couldn’t endure anymore. He reached his tongue out and licked it. And again. And again. Until his tongue was gritty and the taste of dirt and rubber filled his mouth and each of the four boots thrust before him shone. Until his captors were satisfied.

 

 

            After that they left him alone for a few days, only opening his door to throw food onto the floor, not caring if it spilled. He had to scoop it from the cement with his hands.

            He would have answered any questions they asked. He would have repeated anything they told him to say. But it didn’t matter. He was broken now and it didn’t even matter.

            They would begin torturing him again soon. When he had recovered enough to feel the pain afresh. He lay on the mattress, shivering, feeling the bruises and scabs across his body, the sharp ache of his broken ribs, the pangs of hunger in his stomach. He couldn’t remember what not feeling like this felt like anymore.

 

**So what'd you think of our visitor? He was definitely fun to write and I hope he felt true to the real Nick Fury. The wheels are in motion now! Which is good because Loki doesn't have much farther to fall...**


	4. A Flicker of Hope

         **New Year same Loki, right where we left him. But luckily (?) his life is about to get a little more interesting.**

 

            Regular torture resumed for several days before there was another pause. They gave him one day of anxious rest which passed all too slowly. Loki spent it wondering what they were planning, half-wishing they would just burst in and bring him to the room already.

            When they did come they were cool and clinical. They dragged him silently past his usual torture chamber, weaving through halls until he was lost in the maze of white. When they stopped he had no idea where they were or how his captors knew where they were. There were no landmarks. Yet they confidently yanked open this particular door.

            The room was empty and white. It had the standard tile floor and concrete walls. There were no visible instruments of torture, not even iron loops to chain him to. Not that they’d bothered shackling him in a long time. The only things inside were three black plastic chairs aligned so that one faced the other two. They shoved him in and shut the door behind him. He was alone. He stood where they’d left him for several moments before he finally thought to try the door handle. It was locked.

            He looked at the chairs. It’d been a long time since he’d sat in a chair. He could feel the cake of sweat and grime on his back. He hadn’t showered in days now. They probably didn’t want him on the furniture. Was this some kind of test? He couldn’t make himself sit on the clean plastic so he finally lowered himself to the floor beside the single chair, facing the door and the empty chairs as he sat cross-legged.

            The waiting made him nervous. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, beneath the mass of ebony curls that they had recently hacked short once again. He began folding and unfolding his hands. His fingers trembled. He tried to keep his mind empty. It helped somewhat, sinking into the abyss. It kept the frenzy of his fear about the immediate future at bay.

            The door handle clicked and then opened. He recognized the shoes, the walk. It was Fury. He shuddered. It didn’t matter what happened here. He would be punished for his insolence, for meeting with someone who had power over his captors. This was worse than anything he had imagined. The last beating Fury’s presence had caused…

            Suddenly he registered a second set of footsteps. Someone was with Fury this time. Loki stole a glance upwards and then flinched back down. Tony Stark. The fear in his chest turned ice cold.

            What did they want with him? Last time Fury had visited him he had paid dearly for it, though as far as he knew he hadn’t actually angered the Director. The Director’s presence had merely angered his captors. He desperately wanted to avoid another torture session like that one, but he had no idea if Fury had ordered the torture or if his captors had acted alone or what he could do in either case to change the outcome. And who knew if Stark’s presence would anger them further? It was hopeless. His fingers continued their trembling as he kept the rest of his body perfectly still.

            Loki could feel both of their gazes on him. Neither of them sat in the provided chairs. Instead they stood just inside the threshold, across from him. The door shut behind them with a solid snap. Stark broke the silence. “You didn’t tell me you went Guantanamo on his ass.”

            Loki wondered what that meant. He had forgotten how loud Stark was, how cocky. He remembered how angry Stark had made him in the past. But he couldn’t feel that anymore. Instead he was anxious and… hopeful? He hadn’t felt this kind of surging hope in a long time. These two men had power. Faces instead of masks. They could change things. They could free him.

            Then he remembered himself. They wouldn’t free him. Why would they want to? This was how they _wanted_ him. Broken and in pain. Paying for sins that felt like they’d been committed by a stranger. They already had what they wanted.

            Fury kept his eye on Loki. “ _I_ didn’t do anything. I wasn’t in charge of his situation directly. I only learned the full extent of his punishment a few weeks ago.”

            When he came to see Loki in person. Was that true? Fury had spoken of “progress” in his last visit, as if he’d known the changes Loki was undergoing. But the truth could lie in either direction. He wouldn’t put it past Fury to lie about such things, to save face in front of Stark. Stark was more than willing to take part in violence but, if Loki remembered correctly, he was not fond of torture.

            Stark came closer and Loki couldn’t help shivering, even though Stark stopped a few feet away. “Anything to say, Reindeer Games?” His sneer was audible.

            He didn’t respond to the jibe, only gathered the courage to ask with the broken whisper of his voice: “Why are you here?”

            That seemed to throw Stark. He actually allowed a moment’s pause before turning to the director. “Surprisingly to the point. Fury? Want to enlighten both of us?”

            Fury’s weight shifted between his feet. “He’s been down here more than two years now.”

            Hearing a number for it surprised him. His time here felt much longer. Of course there was nothing to break it up, to divide one painful day from another.

            “And?” Stark was impatient, as always.

            “That’s as long as the council wanted him to be down here. They let me find out where he was because they want to move him.”

            Move him? They _might_ actually be freeing him? Hope crawled up Loki’s throat even as he tried to swallow it back down.

            “Move him where? And why? Looks like they’ve got him under control.”

            Loki wondered what he looked like to Stark. The lack of scars kept him from becoming a complete mess, but he knew he was still covered in bruises and welts. He must not look that bad. Or maybe he simply underestimated Stark’s cruelty.

            “His presence has been riling up the ex-Hydra inmates who’ve been… working on him. The council doesn’t like them having access to even a few of the hallways down here, or the ability to potentially conspire w-”

            “They’ve been letting _Hydra_ play with him?” Stark’s voice was suddenly cold. A moment ago he’d been praising their work. Loki sat impassive, listening.

            “He’s a criminal, Stark. A maniac.”

            “He’s also Thor’s brother. And at least he didn’t experiment on people. He didn’t carve them up just to see what they would look like. He may be a power-hungry bastard but Hydra was full of maniacs ten times worse than him, even if they only had a hundredth of his power. And you’re letting them have their fun when they deserve to be locked up as much, if not more than he does!”

            “You didn’t seem to have a problem with their methods thirty seconds ago.”

            “Well I have a problem with it now.”

            “You haven’t seen the results.”

            “What ‘results’?”

            “Loki, kneel.” Fury’s voice rang out with authority.

            Loki responded almost before he’d heard the command, pulling himself quickly to his knees. He took the same position he’d assumed before in Fury’s presence, head bowed, hands behind his back.

            Silence fell across the room. Fury walked over to him and suddenly pressed on the back of his neck. “Down.”

            Loki bent until his forehead touched the floor, lying prostrate with his palms flat against the tile. He tried to make himself small. Deflect the attention, avoid their anger. Avoid pain. He didn’t move as Fury circled him.

            “Apologize to Stark.”

There was less than a second’s pause before Loki responded.

            “I’m sorry, Stark.” His mouth was dry, as it nearly always was, and the words came out quietly, but he knew Stark could hear him in the silence of the room.

            “For what?” Fury prompted.

            “For the pain I have caused you.” He could feel himself shaking. It came out sincere. Was that the right answer?

            “What are you Loki? Describe yourself.” Fury stopped a few feet from Loki’s head.

            “I am a worthless criminal.” He swallowed hard and he felt his cheeks burning with shame. It was only the truth. But telling that to Stark made a pit open inside his stomach.

            “More.”

            “I’ve killed innocent people and taken pleasure in their suffering. I’m a liar and a thief. I’m pathetic and hideous and vile and disgusting. I am a monster who deserves to be punished.” His throat constricted on its own. He felt like he was somewhere far away, listening to himself recite the litany they had taught him. The truth they had shown him, illuminating his true nature even more than that moment when he had seen his skin turn blue.

            “Ask him to punish you.”

            “Punish me.” His voice shook a little, but this was familiar. His captors had introduced this weeks ago. He fell into the pattern they had established.

            “Beg.”

            “ _Please_ punish me.”

            “You can do better than that!” Fury yelled.

            “Punish me for my crimes, Stark! I injured your friends. I _enslaved_ them. I nearly killed you and I did murder others. I _deserve_ to be punished.” His throat was starting to hurt again and the words had come out frenzied, desperate. He could feel both of their gazes on him and he couldn’t stop trembling. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe if he obeyed well enough they would make the torture stop, or at least take over themselves. He wouldn’t mind that. He did deserve to be punished still. And anything would be better than his current captors’ regime. Maybe they would even finally decide to kill him.

            “Stop it, Fury. Stop.” Stark’s voice shook with… anger? “This is…”

            “I think it’s a nice change of pace from the ‘I will rule you all’ attitude.”

            “Having him parrot whatever you say because he doesn’t want to be tortured? He’s shaking like a leaf!”

            Was it that obvious? He tried again to stop, but he couldn’t. They were angry. He didn’t want them to be angry. He wanted the torture to end.

            Fury shrugged. “Still an improvement. The point is that he’s willing to listen to reason now.”

            “He’s willing to do whatever you want him to do because he knows he’s going back into the hands of Hydra agents! I can’t believe you sanctioned this.”

            “I’m not saying it’s the best case scenario. But it’s done the job. You know some super-secret method that would have gotten this response?”

            There was a pause. Loki’s knees were beginning to hurt but he didn’t move.

            “That’s what I thought. This worked. And now that it’s worked, the council is willing to lighten his punishment, move him out of this facility.”

            “Move him where? S.H.I.E.L.D has another prison facility lying around somewhere? And why are you even bringing me into—.” Stark stopped abruptly. “Tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

            “You have one of the most secure facilities on the planet, Stark.”

            “I’m not a part-time prison warden, Nick!”

            “You have extra rooms, extra floors even, already set up as living quarters.”

            “Those are for my friends! I’m not open for charity cases and certainly not for damaged psychopaths!”

            “S.H.I.E.L.D is willing to give you a stipend for his living expenses, as well as any equipment you think you’ll need to keep him under control.”

            “I don’t care what S.H.I.E.L.D is offering. I don’t want to do this and you brought me here for the express purpose of manipulating me, didn’t you?”

            “It’s not at all tempting to you, the idea of having your vanquished enemy at your feet? He could work in your kitchen or as a maid or something.”

            “I’m flattered that you think my ego is that large, eye-patch.” There was a slight pause and Loki could feel Stark’s gaze upon him. “And I do have to admit that it’s an attractive offer. But he’d probably poison me with a bad taco.”

            “Jarvis can watch him 24/7. Don’t tell me you think he’s incapable of keeping an eye on Loki.”

            “And if he decides to pull a magic trick?”

            “His magic has been stripped from him.” Loki flinched and instinctively his mind slid over the prison of darkness that contained his green sea. He hadn’t been _stripped_ of it. This was almost worse. He could still feel it there, unable to help him, just present enough to taunt him.

            It had gotten quiet again. Loki felt his heartbeat speed up, though how it could go any faster he didn’t know. They might free him. He didn’t care if he had to be Stark’s maid. He had earned his punishment. But to be out of this prison, away from that cursed room… it would be a comparative paradise.

            He crawled the short distance to Stark’s feet. Stark’s shoes were polished to a high shine. He clutched them gingerly, hoping that Stark wouldn’t take offense at his touch. “Grant me your mercy, Lord Stark. I will be obedient, I swear it. I will do whatever you ask of me. Just please don’t leave me here...”

            His voice cracked and he trailed off. He didn’t lift his head, just kept staring at Stark’s feet, feeling himself shake. He felt Stark pulling away and he whispered again, “Please.”

Stark sighed. “I hate you.” Loki flinched and immediately Stark muttered, “Not you. Not at the moment anyway. I hate the pirate lookalike over there for bringing me here.”

            The Director seemed indifferent. “You can say no. But we don’t have any other facilities with high enough security clearance. I thought about contacting Thor but he’s blind when it comes to his brother and Loki’s still a flight risk. The council would never go for it.”

            Stark was apparently his only option. Loki continued to grasp at his feet. He repeated a chorus of pleas in his head, though no more escaped his lips. He was at Stark’s mercy and once he would have hated that. But he knew that Stark did have a conscience and now he only hoped that it would be enough to sway him, to make him offer sanctuary to someone who had tried to kill him…

            His hopes plummeted. He had tried to murder Stark and all of his friends. Why would he have pity on his sworn enemy? He didn’t deserve Stark’s mercy. His choices had won him his place in this facility. The words rang back through his head. _I deserve to be punished_.

            Stark sighed again. “Give me a few days. I need to think. And I’ll have to talk to Pepper. She’s not going to be happy and I’m going to blame you, Nick. I will blame you for bringing that woman’s wrath down on me.”

            “I thought you weren’t dating anymore?”

            “We aren’t. But she’s still part of my company and she’s going to notice if I’m suddenly getting bonus checks from S.H.I.E.L.D every month. She’s going to be pissed.”

            “I’m sure you can handle it.”

            Stark started to move his foot again. “You can let go of my shoe now.”

            Loki released him but remained kneeling at his feet. He had done all he could do. He just had to hope that he had moved the strange mechanical heart inside Stark’s chest.

            Both men headed for the door. He wondered when they’d come back. _If_ they would come back. The door remained shut for several minutes. Then it reopened and his captors came in. They grabbed him under each arm and hauled him to his feet. They didn’t seem as angry this time but he couldn’t always tell. They passed the torture room without stopping and threw him back into his cell. He curled up on the mattress, after obtaining permission. It was over now. What would happen would happen. He fell asleep feeling a tiny flicker of hope moving in his chest.

 

 

            It had been at least a week. His torture had continued. Disappointment, a feeling he was surprised to find he could still feel, was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He should have done more. He hadn’t been convincing enough. Or maybe Stark thought he hadn’t suffered enough. He wondered if Fury had shown him video of Loki’s torture. Part of him hoped he had. It would be enough to move Stark, he knew it. But another part of him didn’t want anyone seeing that video, ever.

            _Why? Because you don’t want them to think you’re weak? They already know you’re weak. You groveled at his feet. You offered to serve your sworn enemy unconditionally. You don’t even have a plan anymore. You have nothing._

            He clenched his hands into fists, trying to stop the voice in his head. But it just continued. _This didn’t happen because they hurt you. The pain was only a light. Showing you your true self. Weak and bitter and monstrous scum. That’s what you are. Thor wouldn’t have broken, if he were in your place. He would still be fighting. But you’ve given up. Because that’s what you were born to do._

            The voice ended, its tirade over, but it had already done its work. He felt sick to his stomach and he couldn’t unclench his hands. Why wasn’t he stronger? Why couldn’t he have been more like his brother? Why was he cursed to be born a monster?

            The door to his cell opened and he threw himself onto his stomach reflexively. His captors dragged him down the hallway to the room. He tried to steel himself, to hold himself together, no more cracks. But as they plunged his head into the water he could feel his control slipping away. He was pathetic. Worthless. Stark knew that. They would never come for him. There was only this. The cold on his face, in his throat. The pain in his stomach, the panic as he searched for air and found none. Only this.

 

**I wish I could stop myself from ending chapters like this but there is nothing else. Only this ;). Also I'm using the popular AU where Pepper and Tony are splitsville as a couple but still fairly good friends and coworkers. Just FYI. Thanks again for the comments and kudos, they help pull these chapters from my brain into the interwebs!**


	5. Broken

            **Fair warning: This chapter is brutal. Like ouch, wince, I don't want to imagine this happening to me brutal. It's short though. If that helps?**

 

            Three days later he was back in his cell when the slam of the door opening woke him. He scrambled onto the floor. He hoped they had food. Anything. Broth. Bread. The disgusting gray porridge they were fond of slopping onto the floor so they could force him to lick the cement clean. They hadn’t fed him in four days now and the ribs they’d broken three days ago still hadn’t fully healed. He needed food.

            But their hands were empty. They kicked him in the stomach and then pulled him from the room. They walked quickly today. They were angry. He could sense it. He stumbled trying to keep up and one of them yanked on his hair, pulling him forward.

            They threw him into the chair and began strapping him down. He was beginning to sweat. When they were this rough at the start, it was never over quickly. Begging would make no difference. He’d long ago given up on his silver tongue. They were immune to it. He shut his eyes and clenched his fists as they fastened the diodes to his skin. Then he gritted his teeth as the electricity shot through him and everything in his body turned to fire.

 

 

            He couldn’t move. The pain froze him to the chair and they just kept coming back. One of them had taken a knife to his face and he could feel the blood still oozing down his neck. They almost never cut him there. It bled too much and made him light-headed, unable to properly feel pain. He wondered if he’d done something to make them angry. But he’d done nothing differently. He had nothing to do with the decisions made in this place. They did whatever they wanted to do. That was all.

            They hauled him from the chair now, dragging him to the hook in the wall over which they threw his manacles. This would be his fourth whipping in this session and his knees were so weak he couldn’t stand properly. He was forced to lean on his arms, his bodyweight yanking on his shoulders until he thought they would pop free of their sockets. His feet slipped in his own blood as the whip sliced his back again and again. A particularly nasty lash fell almost horizontally, tearing across the other open wounds as he screamed.

            He couldn’t keep his eyes open and he could feel himself sagging towards the floor, putting yet more painful weight on his arms. His strength was spent. His muscles could only jerk reflexively as the blows landed. He tried to embrace the darkness at the edges of his vision but when he began swaying on his feet they stopped whipping him and instead slapped him across the face, making the cut there sting him back into consciousness.

            They ordered him to stay awake. He sought oblivion with even more determination, the only form of rebellion he still partook in. He fell to his knees with another weak scream at the painful yank on his arms and he could feel himself slipping away. Then they freed his arms and began pouring water down his throat and the darkness retreated as his body drank greedily. He cursed his endurance, his body’s ragged tenacity. A true mortal would’ve fallen unconscious long ago.

            They didn’t bring him back to the chair. They left him on the ground and strapped his manacles to a different iron loop, one embedded in the tile. They forced him to lie on his back. One of them stepped on his chest, grinding his raw skin into the floor. If the motion hadn’t pushed the air from his lungs he would have screamed again.

            The other captor was placing something hard beneath his left leg, below his knee. He tried to move and they kicked the bottom of his foot. One of them knelt, holding his leg in place with their weight. The other disappeared momentarily, then returned. Holding a hammer.

            “Please don’t. Please don’t. Please!” He couldn’t help himself as he began squirming desperately beneath their grip. The one holding the hammer raised it high. And swung it down hard.

            He screamed as his kneecap shattered with an audible crack. Pain shot up his leg and into his head and his vision went completely dark. For a moment he actually fell unconscious. Then the pain dragged him back into his body. There were tears on his face and though they’d let go of his leg he didn’t try to move even an inch. It hurt more than anything he’d ever felt before, a hot throbbing pain that burned and burned. It felt as if someone was shoving shards of glass into his flesh.

            They didn’t let him stay on the ground. They grabbed him beneath his arms and swung him to his feet and he was screaming again because it hurt so much. The pain was inescapable. Even the slight pull of gravity on his now dangling limb made him scream in agony. He didn’t even notice when they placed him back on the chair. He just kept making the same choking sounds over and over, dry sobs.

            They were strapping him down again when he finally realized. It wasn’t over. They brought out the crushing device and now he was gibbering, begging for it to be over, begging them to kill him. One of them shoved his leg aside and made him scream again. They continued placing weight on his chest until his breaths grew shorter and shorter. Ignoring every word that made it out of his cracked lips they continued their work until finally Loki was gone, lost in a world of incoherent pain.

 

 

 

            He was back in his cell when he woke. The last thing he remembered was the weight on his chest. With the first conscious breath he took he could tell they had fractured his ribs anew, in addition to reopening the cracks that had been halfway to healing. He wondered if they were trying to fuse his ribcage solid, breaking the bones only to let them heal and then break them again.

            He shifted slightly and had to bite back a gasp as tears sprang into his eyes. He had forgotten, for one brief second, about his leg. He realized now that it was the reason he was awake. It was hot and throbbing and even that slight movement had made the pain spike as though he’d been stabbed there. He reached down and lightly brushed his fingers against the swollen joint. Even that amount of pressure made it ache, though the coolness of his hand felt soothing.

            He tried to sit up, to look at it, but he only lifted his head a few inches before he had to stop, whimpering as his head fell back to the mattress. His ribs were bad this time. And his back hadn’t hurt until it began to lift from the mattress and he felt the scabs sticking to it, stinging as they peeled away.

            He was trapped in his own body. He couldn’t move without creating more pain. And even without moving his ribs ached with every breath. He stared into the darkness of his cell and tried to go back to sleep, but the pain was chasing itself in circles. Ribs, knee, back. Back, ribs, knee. His leg twitched and his fingers clenched into fists.

            Why hadn’t they just killed him? He wanted it to be _over_. But instead they just threw him here, let the bloody meat of him reform into a thing they could torture even more thoroughly next time. He had finally fallen unconscious at their hands. He betted that if he put weight on his leg right now he would fall unconscious again. It hurt so much while he was just lying in place… he couldn’t even imagine trying to move.

            Suddenly he heard them outside his cell. _No_. They couldn’t be here now. It was too soon. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t. The door opened and one of them strode in and kicked him in the ribs. The shriek he made echoed around the cell.

            “Please…” he murmured, but his mouth was so dry he could hardly speak. He could feel the caked blood on his face cracking as his lips moved. One of his captors was reaching down with something in their hand. They put it over his face and for a moment he tried to struggle but he moved his left leg and the pain exploded once again and then everything was getting darker and darker as he breathed in the smell of something chemically sweet.

 

**Awww snap. Goes Loki's leg. Wow what a bad not-exactly-a-joke. So yeah this was a painful chapter. I feel kind of bad for writing it. Almost. I am sorry that it's short, but that's just how it worked out. Thank you all again for your kudos and the comments that made my face light up like a weird human Christmas tree. You guys are awesome.**

 


	6. Illusion?

**Since the last chapter was so short (and, as was pointed out, a tad redundant)  I figured I wouldn't leave you hanging long. So Merry January, happy unbirthday or whatever.**

 

 

            “… his third through seventh ribs have multiple fractures and there are signs of many past breakages in the same area. Both arms, all of the fingers on his left hand, and both of his ankles also show signs of past fracture though they have since healed. Then of course there is the obvious injury to his kneecap. It appears to have been shattered very recently. There are also a variety welts and contusions but those should heal within a day or two if my estimation of his healing ability is correct. He is also 50 pounds lighter than he was the last time he was inside this tower and suffering from acute dehydration.”

            “Damn…”

            “His heartrate is slightly elevated, sir. I believe he’s about to wake up.”

            The voice sounded robotic and close. His captors? He doubted it. They wouldn’t be discussing his injuries so clinically, without malice or pride. And the second voice was human, unfiltered.

            He didn’t want to open his eyes. But he had to know what was going on.

            He peeled them open and for a moment there was nothing but glaring brightness. Pain shot through his head and his eyelids snapped shut. He waited a moment and then opened them again, more slowly. The room was gray, like his cell, but it couldn’t be his cell. For one thing there was this bright light. Light clearly coming from somewhere other than a crack around a door. He was also lying in a bed, covered in a sheet for the first time in a very long time. It was white and he felt guilty. He had stained it for sure.

             His eyes finally wandered farther than the bed and ceiling. They found a pair of familiar highly shined shoes. “Stark?” He tried to say, but his mouth was extremely dry and it sounded more like a quiet cough.

            “Don’t try to talk. There’s water on your left.” Stark’s voice seemed calm, but he could hear a bit of strain. He wondered what it meant.

            He looked to his left and found a glass of water. With great effort he seized it and lifted it to his lips. It was cool and truly tasteless. He realized that it was the first time in a long time that he’d drunk from a glass.

            He looked back over at Stark, his eyes daring to go as high as his chest, where the odd blue light shone through his clothing. “Thank you.” He whispered.

            Stark shifted on his feet. “Go back to sleep. You shouldn’t be awake yet.”

            Loki’s eyes were already closed again as he began sliding back down into the familiar darkness of unconsciousness.

 

 

 

            The room was empty when he woke the next time. He also didn’t feel quite so horrible. His ribs ached and he held his leg perfectly still, afraid to move it, but the headache he remembered had faded to something dull and far away.

            Someone must have treated the wounds on his back because there wasn’t even a hint of pain there, just itchiness from the remnants of scabs still clinging to his skin.

            He hadn’t dreamt it then. He was really out of S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison. Or at least out of the part of the prison he’d been in for the past two years. He wasn’t convinced of anything yet. It could all be some cruel joke. An illusion. He’d been fond of those, when he’d had access to his magic. But he wanted this to be real. He didn’t know what he would do if it wasn’t.

That was a lie. He knew what he’d do. The same thing he’d been doing. Obeying their every whim and avoiding pain as much as possible. He couldn’t do anything else. They wouldn’t let him die and he couldn’t escape. He just continued to survive in torment.

            He ran his hand over the smooth white sheet. His skin felt sticky and disgusting. Once he would have snapped his fingers and he’d have been clean. He stared at the hideous black marks on his wrists. Manacles that never left him, restraining his most valuable asset.

            In the past he might have argued that his magic was tied with his mind for that title. But he’d learned one lesson well: he was no better than a mortal. If he’d truly been smarter, cleverer, he would have escaped. But he wasn’t better than them. Except at enduring pain. Endless shallow pain that never took him close enough to death.

            He wondered if S.H.I.E.L.D had given his captors orders on that subject. _Play with him all you want, but don’t let that lovely pulse flutter_ … It would explain a lot actually. Especially since they didn’t know how far was too far to push his immortal frame. Well semi-immortal. He wondered where he fell on that spectrum now. Lesser than Asgardians. Higher than Midgardians. As usual, he belonged nowhere.

            He yanked himself back to the present. To more pressing questions than his mortality. Should he stay here, where he’d been placed? Should he try to find Stark? What if he left the bed and he wasn’t supposed to? Would Stark punish him? What were Stark’s plans for him?

            The answer to all of his questions was that he didn’t know. So he didn’t move, although he couldn’t fall back to sleep either.

            Then he heard the door opening. He threw himself from the bed, landing on his stomach on the ground. He strangled his scream into a series of sharp gasps as first his chest and then his knee hit the floor. He hadn’t even realized there was some kind of needle in his hand and now he could feel it stabbing into his flesh. But he didn’t dare move. _Lie on the floor like the worm you are_. His captors’ orders echoed in his head.

            “Loki?” It took Stark a moment to find him. “What the hell…?”

            Loki lifted his head from the floor slightly and opened his mouth, but he had nothing to say. He couldn’t tell what Stark thought of his position.

            “Get back on the bed, come on.”

            Loki tried to obey and quickly realized that he couldn’t. His left leg couldn’t bear any weight and putting his weight on his arms made his ribs hurt so much that his elbows curled up reflexively. For a moment he just sort of flopped on the ground.

            Then Stark grabbed him at his armpits and lifted him onto the bed in a surprising show of strength, for a mortal. Loki, despite his thin frame, was not light. Or at least he never used to be. He had to admit that he was lighter than he’d once been. Somehow Stark managed to move him without banging his knee against the mattress and Loki wondered if that had been purposeful or not. Actually he wondered why Stark put him back on the mattress at all.

            Stark did something to the machine Loki had been hooked to. “Give me your arm.”

            Loki held out the hand that had the needle plunged deeply inside of it.

            Stark put his hand on the needle and then, without warning, pulled it from his flesh, pressing a square of gauze against the wound. It stung, but it was hardly noticeable compared to the throbbing in his knee after that fall. Stark had him hold his arm above his head and after a minute or so the wound stopped bleeding.

            “I guess that was one way to take the IV out.”

            Loki assumed the needle had something to do with the so-called IV. He wondered if he’d damaged the machine by driving the needle into his flesh. He wondered if he’d be punished for that. He heard Stark walk away and then return without leaving the room. He kept his eyes trained on his own lap.

            “These are for you. Until your knee is, you know, a knee again.” Loki glanced over as Stark leaned a pair of crutches against the bed. Loki was mortified. Gods did not need crutches. They healed quickly and easily. They didn’t limp around like cripples.

            But he wasn’t really a god anymore. Odin had smothered his immortality along with his magic. Once upon a time his knee would’ve already been fine. Instead it was a swollen mess that was causing him excruciating pain.

            He realized that Stark’s action was a kindness. Without the aid he would be forced to stumble about on one leg, praying that he didn’t damage his injured knee during the healing process. “Thank you.” He murmured.

            “I’m giving them to you so you can follow me to your _actual_ room. This is my personal ICU. I prefer to have it empty in case of a real emergency.”

            So Stark didn’t see it as a kindness. Loki took the crutches and positioned them beneath his arms. He’d seen mortals using them, though he’d never used them himself. How hard could it be?

            The answer was much harder than he’d thought. It took him several dangerously wobbly swing-steps to find an acceptable rhythm and he was still only able to move at a snail’s pace, following Stark down bare white hallways that reminded him too much of the place he’d left. It felt strange to walk somewhere without being in manacles. Stark didn’t glance behind to see if Loki followed, let alone drag him by the arms or hair. Not that Loki thought of running. He hadn’t tried to run anywhere in a long time. And now his ribs ached with every breath and his knee was hurt so much he could hardly even watch where they were going let alone try to get there faster than Stark.

            Finally they came to a door on the left side of the hall and Stark stopped and opened it. Loki peered into the room. There was a narrow bed, a dresser, and a small door that he guessed lead to a bathroom. Though small, it was at least three times as large as his cell had been.

            “This is where you’ll be staying.”

            Loki hobbled inside uncertainly. Part of him wondered if this was a trap. The room was done in a neutral palate, grays and blues. It still smelled faintly like paint. The only strange thing about it was a square hole in the wall near the door. He wondered what it was for but he didn’t move to examine it. He was waiting for Stark to give him an order. To manacle him to the wall. To make Loki’s position clear.

            Already Loki could see potential weapons in this room. The blankets on the bed could form a garrote. The dresser could be dismantled, wood sharpened into makeshift knives. This room was dangerous. Did Stark know that? Was he testing Loki with it? Waiting for Loki to snap so Stark could take him down? Or was this simply the naiveté of one who had never been to a prison himself? Stark was watching him but Loki didn’t dare look at his face to try and guess his thoughts. In any case Loki didn’t want Stark to think he was ungrateful. This room was like a paradise and every second spent here was a second not spent in his captors’ care. “Thank you, Stark. I am indebted, truly.” He hoped Stark could hear the sincerity in his words.

            Stark didn’t acknowledge his thanks. “Look Loki, I have a very busy schedule. A company to run. Terrorists to hunt down. Fury thinks I spend all my time lounging around in my penthouse but that’s just because he’s an unenlightened workaholic. I don’t really have time to play jailer. Honestly I was hoping you’d sleep until tomorrow at least. So I have a meeting in twenty minutes and I’m not cancelling it for you. If you get bored you can just talk to Jarvis. He won’t put you to sleep. At least not on purpose.”

            “Thank you for the glowing recommendation, sir.”

            Loki jumped but there was nothing in the room that seemed capable of producing a vaguely sarcastic remark in a robotic yet distinctively British tone.

            “Jarvis, by the way, is the in-house computer system. He’ll be monitoring you during your stay here.”

            How much monitoring could a disembodied voice do? Stark must be pretty confident in its abilities if he was leaving Loki alone in such an unsecured room with it. Loki also wondered how long his “stay here” was going to last. When would Stark tire of his presence and send him back to S.H.I.E.L.D? He hoped the answer was never. Loki resolved to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. He knew he was a burden to Stark already but at the very least he could minimize his impact on Stark’s lifestyle.

            “Alright, so introductions are over and you should be able to figure out everything in here on your own. Just don’t test the door and you’ll be fine.”

            Stark was backing out of the room and the door was closing behind him. Loki wanted to ask something, say something, he didn’t know what, but it was too late. The door shut with a very solid click.

            There were no orders for him to follow and he was completely unrestrained inside the room. He had no template for what to do in this situation. He felt strangely lost.

           The crutches were digging into his armpits but he forced himself to examine the room thoroughly, minus the ominous steel door. The small hole near the door extended upwards inside the wall and he had no idea what it could be for, but it did tell him that the walls of the room were thick and enforced with concrete at the very least. The bedframe was sturdy and welded to the floor, so Stark wasn’t a complete idiot there. And the small door on the far wall of his room did indeed lead to a bathroom. It was compact but not tight, with a small shower stall, toilet, sink, and mirror.

           He hardly recognized his own reflection.

           His hair was cropped short and patchy, covering his head in wayward black curls. His skin was even paler than he remembered, sickly in the bright bathroom light. His cheekbones seemed sharp as blades, his cheeks beneath them hollow and shadowed. Around his glowing green eyes dark circles loomed like bruises. His posture was poor; it looked as though his shoulders were caving in, his whole body attempting to be smaller. He tried to make himself straighten but that made him anxious somehow. He looked deep into the spotless glass. The man inside looked back, thin and frail and weak.

            Loki used the bathroom and tried to do something to his hair. Nothing he did made it look like less of a mess. At least he didn’t have facial hair. He didn’t grow any. Never had.

            He turned away from the mirror and was about to dip his hand into the toilet when suddenly he remembered the sink. Slowly he turned the metal knob. Water flowed effortlessly from it. For several seconds he could only stare. Then he washed his hands, scrubbing thoroughly, trying to get even beneath his nails, wash everything away in the glorious warmth. Then he turned the tap to cold, cupped his hands and drank eagerly. It tasted clean and fresh. It felt like luxury, little sparks of joy forming as he drank the pure and filtered water. He wondered if this was really a dream.

            He went back out into the bedroom and wondered what he should do. He didn’t trust this “Jarvis” in the ceiling. Besides, what would he say to it? Holding a conversation with a computer program… absurd. And a little pathetic. He wondered if Stark talked to it often. He shook his head. Stark had wealth and power and all the company that came with it. He didn’t have to resort to talking to computers for companionship.

            Loki decided he might as well go back to sleep. He was too tired to attempt dismantling the room for materials to use as weapons. And a part of him wasn’t even sure that he wanted to do that at all. He went to sit on the bed and then found that he couldn’t. He hadn’t asked permission.

            Would Stark even care? He didn’t think so. Stark wasn’t really one of his captors. Stark tried to help people, he didn’t torture them. Loki tried to convince himself that it would be okay, but he couldn’t make himself get on the mattress, no matter how hard he tried. A kick in the ribs, his head hitting the cement, being dragged to the room… his heart started racing. The memories were too strong.

            He finally grabbed the pillow from the bed and lowered himself to the floor, leaning the crutches against the bed frame. He propped the pillow against the wall and lay back against it. The room was carpeted, much warmer and more comfortable than his cell floor.

            Despite his recent hours of rest in Stark’s ICU, he was still exhausted. He wondered again if this was an illusion. Perhaps his mind had finally snapped. If he fell asleep would he wake back in his cell? He shivered. But if that happened perhaps when he fell asleep again he would be back here once more. He clung to that thought as his breathing slowed and sleep at last overtook him.

 

**So I know I tagged this "Tony Stark has a heart" but I take that pretty loosely. As in, Tony's a decent person but this is not a sappy story, at least not so far, and he is still billionaire playboy Tony Stark, fairly self-absorbed and intent on driving Pepper crazy with his antics. So any sap that comes out of this story is going to take a long time to flow to the surface before I'll really tap it. (why am I making maple syrup references now? why is my brain like this?)** **Also I'm taking wild liberties with the schematics of Stark/Avengers tower so don't expect rooms or anything to align with the movies or comics. I'm not spatially aware enough to stay accurate to something I didn't make up myself. Anyway this note got long, hope you enjoyed and thanks again for the feedback!**


	7. Guilt

**It would be nice if I could keep chapters to some sort of uniform length but I'm a go with the flow kind of person so this one's shorter again...**

 

         “Why do I keep finding you on the floor?”

          Loki startled awake, every nerve in his body twitching as he pressed himself to the ground. But it was only Stark. No black masks, no starched uniforms to be seen. He tried to get his heartrate back under control.

          “No seriously, is this some sort of zen yoga thing where you deny yourself earthly possessions to gain eternal enlightenment?”

          He had no idea what that meant. But he owed Stark every breath of air he took beyond S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison complex. So he answered honestly. “I forgot to ask permission before you left.”

          Loki could feel Stark staring at him. “You’re shitting me right?”

          “I… beg your pardon?”

          “Huh. Either you’re actually telling the truth or you’ve been putting some serious hours into your acting career.”

          “My intent is not to deceive you, Stark. I am in your debt.” And he would be for a very long time. Stark had saved him from potential decades of suffering. Stark had agreed to take a mortal enemy into his own home, and even to care for that enemy, a well-known liar, thief, and murderer. Stark was a more generous man than Loki would have ever given him credit for.

          For a moment Stark was actually silent. “Okay? But I’m still not really getting this: why are you asking permission to sleep on a bed in a room that I specifically told you was yours?”

          Loki examined the spotless carpeting. “My previous jailers didn’t always grant me the luxury of a bed.” Because he had to learn that he didn't belong on the furniture unless they wanted him there. As a criminal anything given to him was charity.They could give and they could take away.

          “They removed your bed?”

          “No they… punished me if I slept on it without their permission.” Loki hurried past that admission. “And of course, this bed is yours. So if you don’t want me to use it the floor is fine. It’s carpeted, much better than cement.” He tried to placate Stark. He could tell that he had somehow upset the man and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

          “Loki. I’m not going to give you something and then tell you you can’t use it. It’s in here because this is where you’ll be sleeping and that’s what beds are for. So permission granted, or whatever it is you’re looking for.”

          Loki wanted to leave this subject behind so he just nodded his agreement. Permission granted. For now at least.

          “So… If you’re going to stay here there are going to be some rules. For the moment I've just come up with one.”

          Stark waited until Loki nodded to continue. His next words were laced with an underlying threat. “You will do whatever I ask, tell, or otherwise indicate that you should do. You will respond immediately and quietly. You're still a prisoner and I'm taking lord only knows how much risk just by having you here. So I'm not going to tolerate any wild card bullshit. Break this rule and I will ship you back to S.H.I.E.L.D. with a bow around your neck. Got it?”

          “Yes, Stark.” Loki nodded again, keeping his eyes on the ground. Obedience. That which he had been so loathe to give his father, his brother, indeed anyone in Asgard save occasionally his mother. He had spent most of his life finding ways to avoid it, to follow the letter, not the spirit of the law. But he had spent the last two years learning that in captivity nothing else worked. Anything but strict obedience lead only to pain and suffering.

         Stark seemed to be waiting for something but Loki had nothing else to say. Finally Stark shrugged. “Alright, stand up.”

         Loki hauled himself to his feet as quickly as he could, grabbing the crutches and leaning heavily on them. “Follow me.”

         They left Loki’s room and went down the long white hallway in the opposite direction of the ICU. Stark stopped at a door on the right, unlocked it, and let them both inside. There were two chairs set up to face a screen on the far wall. It was otherwise empty.

         “Take a seat. I just want you to watch.”

          Loki lowered himself to the floor. Stark looked at him but didn’t say anything. He just sat in one of the chairs, a few feet away. “Whenever you’re ready Jarvis.”

          The ceiling lights dimmed of their own accord and different light began streaming onto the screen. Loki had heard of movies but had never actually sat down to watch one. The image appearing, incredibly lifelike he had to admit, was that of the New York skyline. Smoke was rising from several of the buildings and the tone of the man speaking over the footage was solemn. “Today the nation watches in horror as the team nicknamed “The Avengers”, lead by Captain America, struggles to hold back the advancing waves of an alien army in New York City. Officials are urging citizens to evacuate the city as quickly as possible or else to seek out designated emergency shelters. Do not confront…”

           The voice continued and images flicked across the screen. Loki was fascinated and at the same time he longed to look away. Debris falling several stories, crushing everyone in its path. A chitauri soldier stabbing a uniformed man through the chest. The great sky carriers colliding with buildings that crumbled like paper beneath the impact. People screaming as they ran from the destruction. People falling from skyscrapers, the cameras pulling away just before they hit the earth. Destruction. Blood. Mayhem.

          Occasionally there were clips of the Avengers fighting the oncoming horde, looking grimy and tired but determined. They seemed strangely noble in the clips. Resolute. The calm but strained voice of the narrator documented every new development, tallied death and destruction into numbers that could be understood, though not truly comprehended.

          Loki had had only one view of this day before now. His own. In which he protected the tesseract and the portal before finally being targeted by the Avengers. Fighting his own brother on the rooftop. Threatening Stark somewhere in the very building they sat inside now. Cursing silently as he watched the chitauri die, penned in by a handful of would-be do-gooders. And then finally watching the portal close on an enormous explosion and knowing that it was all over.

          He had seen the destruction only peripherally. It wasn’t purposeful to him, just a side effect of conquering the city. He hadn’t cared that a few thousand human beings were dying below him. Even now he could feel only a vague sense of guilt and regret, not sadness. He pitied the people dying onscreen but his eyes did not prick with tears. He wondered if there was something wrong with him. He wondered if the twist of guilt in his gut was less than he deserved.

           Finally the footage ended. Stark stared silently at the screen as the lights came back on. Then he turned to Loki. “Every time I watch these clips I see someone else whose life I could have saved that day. But I didn’t.”

          Stark felt guilty too? He who had done nothing to cause the destruction? Who had fought only to end it? The idea was foreign to him. Loki deserved the guilt. Stark did not.

          Stark made his voice sound almost casual. Almost. “You hadn’t seen this before, had you?”

          Loki shook his head. Thor had taken him to be sentenced in Asgard. Then he was turned over to S.H.I.E.L.D. Nowhere had he had time to see or, truthfully, had interest in seeing the aftermath of his actions.

          “A lot of innocent people died because of you. They didn’t deserve to die. They hadn’t done anything wrong. But they died anyway. Because of the choices you made.”

          “I know.” He said softly.

          “You know but do you _care_? Does it keep you up at night?” Apparently that was rhetorical because Stark just kept talking. “I think it doesn’t. I think that you’re still as selfish as ever, even after paying for your crimes. And I don’t think you want to change, even now that you’ve _been_ changed, against your will.”

          “I might be wrong. In fact I hope you prove me wrong. But either way I wanted to make sure that you knew exactly what kind of destruction and pain you caused. Those deaths are still on your hands. I pulled you out of the hellhole you were in because S.H.I.E.L.D letting Hydra agents torture you for fun was fucked up. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten or forgiven what you did.”

          Stark made it sound like condemnation, but his words were only honest. Loki looked at Stark, still not quite making eye contact, and said quietly. “I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

          Stark seemed surprised for a moment and then Loki caught a glimpse of a narrow smile. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

          Then Stark stood and Loki followed him back down the hallway to his room. Stark shut the door behind him and left without saying another word.

          Loki was surprised. He thought he’d feel… something. But he just felt empty now. Stark tried to show him his monstrousness. But Loki had already seen it, known it intimately through all the recordings, in all his pain. He was a monster and that was how monsters were dealt with. There was no understanding for them, no forgiveness for the lines they’d crossed. Only recompense paid in kind.

          He limped into the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Stark had said that whatever he’d given Loki, Loki could use. Loki only hesitated a second before turning the water on. The water pressure was weak and it didn’t get particularly hot, but it was wonderful nonetheless. He felt the grime of sweat and blood accumulated in prison finally falling away from him. He didn’t have a guard watching him, timing him. He didn’t have to stumble out, shampoo still in his hair, to be marched back to a cell and thrown on the cement floor. He scrubbed his hair until it was cleaner than it had been in years. He stepped out feeling strange. He was no less guilty. No less monstrous. But he felt lighter all the same.

          He slipped back into the hospital gown he’d been wearing since he’d arrived at Stark’s and for the first time he peeled back the bed’s covers and perched on the mattress. He felt less guilty touching it now that he was clean. It was incredibly soft and it had sheets and blankets and smelled of soap, not sweat or dirt or blood. He settled onto it slowly, carefully. It was like lying on a cloud. He didn’t deserve it.

          He pondered returning to the floor, but his knee was throbbing and his body felt heavy. Stark was probably right. He was selfish. But he fell asleep in moments, more comfortable than he’d been in a very long time.

 

 

          **Honestly I find these chapters much harder to write than the torture-y ones. No idea why. So I hope that this is still good? That I'm not losing my touch? (If I had one to begin with..) You guys are all lovely anyway, much nicer readers than I deserve. Hope you enjoyed!**

 


	8. Opportunity

          **Well this one's a whole 100 words longer than the last one. Hope the length doesn't bother you too much!**

 

          Loki woke to a sharp gasping sound and nearly flopped out of the bed searching the room for signs of a threat. He was glad he didn’t fall. He’d forgotten how high off the ground true beds were.

          Eventually he pinpointed the square hole in the wall as the source of the sound because it was no longer empty. Instead a plate sat in it, holding two slices of toast, a bowl of oatmeal, a spoon, and a glass of orange juice. He pulled the plate out with shaky hands and nearly dropped it as with another gasp the shelf that had lowered the food now vanished into the tube.

          The liquid made a tiny splash as his hand trembled violently. When was the last time he’d drunk something other than water? It must’ve been some time before his imprisonment. Nor did he often get meals consisting of more than one component. Or have actual utensils to eat with.

          He stared at it, a meal so perfect it could have been plastic. He set the plate on the floor. He wanted to swallow the meal whole. But he didn’t touch it. Part of him knew that Stark expected him to eat it. The same way he’d expected Loki to use the bed. But food this good had to be earned. Eating it was surely a trap.

          So he went to the bathroom instead and drank some of the glorious water that poured freely from the sink. He wondered when it would stop feeling like a luxury.

          He was sitting on the bed again, trying not to look at the food, when the door began to open. He threw himself to the ground, landing carefully, without hitting his left knee.

          Stark came in and after a moment’s pause, spoke. “Why am I not surprised?”

          Loki didn’t move from his prostrate position on the floor.

          “Clearly you slept in the bed last night. Soooo why are you on the floor right now?”

          Loki repeated his captors’ words, keeping his tone expressionless. “I’m reminding myself of my place.” _You belong on the ground, worm._

           “Okaaaay there’s a rather inconvenient and potentially injurious habit if I’ve ever seen one. How about just giving me a nice butler-style bow instead? Less painful, faster, still gets the point across.”

           Loki wondered how long it would take to break the habit already ingrained. He pulled himself upright and, standing on one leg rather than using the crutches, offered Stark a bow from the waist. “Like this?” He wished his voice didn’t sound so small and uncertain.

          “Looks great. So I won’t be finding you on the floor anymore?”

          “I will try to stay off the floor.”

          “Good. Then item number two is why didn’t you eat breakfast?”

          Loki looked at the still perfectly arranged plate.

          “I know you’re hungry. You haven’t eaten in at least twenty-four hours and you don’t have an ounce of fat on your body. So why is the food still on the plate.”

          “It’s… too much, I didn’t know if… I don’t deserve—”

          Stark cut him off. “I gave you the food, didn’t I?”

          Loki nodded hesitantly.

          “When I give you something to eat, you will eat it. You’re not serving a death sentence, surprising as that may be, so I’m not going to starve you. Eat.”

          Stark waited expectantly. Loki still didn’t quite believe that the feast was his, and he knew he didn’t deserve it. But Stark had given him a command. Loki stretched out a shaky hand and took the glass of orange juice. He drank. It tasted like heaven and now that he’d started he couldn’t stop. The toast even had butter, the saltiness in perfect contrast to the sweetness of the oatmeal and the tang of the juice. All the food was lukewarm now but he didn’t care. He devoured the meal, slowing as he neared the end. His gut wasn’t happy with the speed eating, but he’d grown accustomed to eating quickly on an empty stomach and he clamped down on the threatening nausea.

          Then he turned to Stark. “Thank you.”

          Stark didn’t respond to that. “The plate goes back where it came from.”

          Loki limped the plate back over to the hole, placing it on a new empty shelf. After a moment that too vanished upwards. When one shelf left another simply appeared. It was an ingenious little device. He wondered where it took things on the other side.

          Loki came back over to stand beside the bed and Stark reached into his pocket.

          “Now I have something else for you. Put out your hand.”

          His fingers trembled but he did as he was asked. There was a muted click and something smooth slid into his outstretched palm. Surprise shot through him. He stared down at the glint of steel, the polished black handle. Stark had just handed him a knife.

          The blade was four inches long. He couldn't help brushing his thumb against the cutting edge. It left a trail of blood with its sharpness.

          Was Stark insane?

          “What… What do you want me to do with this?”

          Stark was watching him, but didn’t seem overly concerned. “What do you want to do with it?”

          Loki had no answer. His hand gripped the blade so tightly his knuckles went white. Was this some kind of trick?

          “This is your chance. You could kill me right now. I’m not wearing the suit. I’ve told Jarvis to stand down. What happens now is up to you.” Stark’s voice was calm and unconcerned, completely at odds with the words falling from his lips.

          Loki could kill Tony Stark.

          The whole world seemed to stop spinning.

          Once he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would’ve slit Stark’s throat in a heartbeat and vanished into the ether. But now… he would still be magicless. He would emerge into Midgard as just another mortal, with the other Avengers after him, in search of revenge. He doubted that it would end well for him. And if he took that route he would have killed the first man to show him any shred of kindness in the past two years, a thought which made him… uncomfortable.

           The knife also presented another option. Suddenly he could hear his pulse and the blade waivered just slightly towards his arm. It would be easy to slide the steel through his sinews. To cut away his father’s runes in a final act of bloody defiance.

           If he’d been in S.H.I.E.L.D’s dungeon he would have already plunged the blade into his own flesh, released his soul from the tortured shell of his body. But now he… he didn’t know what to do.

          The knife fell between his trembling fingers and dropped to the floor. He stared at it there, gleaming clean and innocent on the carpet.

          For a moment there was only silence. He could feel Stark staring at him. “That’s it? No stabbing? No threats? No daring escape?”

          Pathetic, wasn’t it? Loki wasn’t even trying anymore. For a moment he considered lunging for the blade. But the moment passed. He just felt empty and vaguely nauseated at the idea of seeing blood again. He’d seen more than enough of it in prison. He’d given himself over to Stark. There was no going back.

          Stark moved until he was only inches away from Loki. “I thought you wanted to kill me. Isn’t that what you spent so much time trying to do?” His voice was mocking but it didn’t sting. Loki just felt numb.

          “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want to kill anyone.” For once that was true. Even if Odin had appeared in this very room and somehow been at his mercy, Loki didn’t think he would have raised a hand to him. His rage had vanished.

          “No? Not even the blonde-haired brother who aggravates you so much?” Stark’s voice was now striking a balance between teasing and genuinely curious.

          “Thor is a far better man than I.” The words were quiet and he issued them to the floor. He hadn’t said them aloud before. He had refused to agree with that statement his entire life. And yet while he had denied it he had done nothing to prove himself, to earn that status. Thor, meanwhile, had learned from his mistakes. Thor had tried to be a better man. And he had succeeded.

          “You stabbed him in the ribs the last time you talked to him. You’re telling me all those feelings are just gone?”

          He remembered the shock in Thor’s bright blue eyes. “If I’d truly wanted to kill him he would have died.”

          He could have twisted his hidden knife. He could have cast poison onto the blade. Instead he slid it cleanly in and out. Momentarily incapacitating Thor at most. It was funny actually. He hadn’t realized this until now. In that moment he thought he wanted the blonde oaf dead. Yet he had stayed his hand.

          Stark reached down and picked up the knife, again offering it to him hilt first. “Last chance. I won’t offer again.”

          The Iron Man was apparently at least a little bit mad. Of course to dream up a metal suit of armor that could fly he would have to be. Still Loki felt strangely relieved now, as if he had passed some kind of test. He was still a prisoner. He was still a criminal. But he was still here. He didn’t reach for the knife. He reached instead to the oath he had made. Asgardians kept their word. Even tricksters like himself. The only trick there was in getting the right words sworn. And he had offered those words to Stark himself. “I swore obedience to you, Stark. What would you have me do?”

            Stark folded the knife and slid it back into his pocket. “Well that’s one thing: stop calling me ‘Stark’.”

            “What shall I call you?”

            “Admittedly I haven’t decided what would strike the right tone… Jarvis?”

            “Yes, Master Stark?” Jarvis’ voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Loki wondered if the AI was always listening. He imagined that it was. What else did it have to do?

            “Perfect. Thank you, Jarv. ‘Master’ will do the job beautifully. Think you can remember that, Loki?”

            Stark grinned at him. This was just pandering to Stark’s ego. But pandering to large egos was something Loki had been doing for centuries on Asgard. And Loki _had_ offered him servitude. At least he wasn’t calling Loki ‘worm’. At least not yet. He ignored the heat of embarrassment in his stomach and responded dutifully, “Yes, Master.”

            He imagined that Stark’s grin grew even wider. “I’m not going to say I’ve dreamed of hearing you say that but wow that is music to my ears.”

            Loki had to banish the blush he felt creeping up his cheeks. Why was he blushing? He had done far more embarrassing things before his captors and felt only the desire to avoid punishment. But Stark was different. His captors had never known him before he was a prisoner. They hadn’t seen him in his former, terrifying glory. Stark had. Stark knew how far he had fallen. And somehow that was making Loki more aware of his descent as well.

            “Fun as this has been, I do have other engagements to see to. Goodbye Loki.”

            “Goodbye.”

            “Goodbye who?”

            He’d forgotten already. Idiot. He felt a quiver of fear as he hurried to correct himself. “Goodbye, Master.”

            Apparently the transgression wasn’t serious enough to warrant punishment. Stark just grinned and then darted out the door. It swung shut heavily behind him. And Loki just stood there wondering whether he had imagined the entire preposterous scene.

 

          **This is a scene that I'd love to write from Stark's perspective. But don't get your hopes up, I'm sticking with Loki, hard as it may be sometimes. I will say though, that this all comes down to trust. And Tony Stark being a ridiculous gambler. Also, in case you're wondering, I imagine that Stark has a cafeteria somewhere in his tower. So they're just sending plates up the tube on Stark's orders, probably assuming that Stark himself is eating them... They're wrong though. Tony lives off bourbon and the fumes from soldering irons. Just repeating what I've heard ;P**

 


	9. Back in Black

            **Ooo a wild longer chapter appears! Happy early Valentine's Day? (That's not foreshadowing btw. Unless you celebrate it very differently than I do..)**

 

             A small salad came down the chute for lunch. He took it gingerly. Stark had told him to eat. So he ate. It tasted utterly foreign to him. He realized he hadn’t had a fresh vegetable or fruit in two years. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them until now.

            When he finished eating an odd peace came over him. He didn’t have to fear that his captors would burst in and drag him to another torture session. That didn’t stop him from keeping an ear cocked towards the door, but he felt himself relaxing minutely.

            He lowered himself to the floor. He couldn’t sit cross-legged but he found a comfortable pose in which to meditate. It was something he used to do often. Sometimes he’d done it to help control a particularly difficult spell. Other times because he needed to calm his mind. Now he did it because he didn’t know who he was anymore. And perhaps with enough thought he could figure it out.

            He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, only that he was so stiff he couldn’t even jump when Jarvis’ voice suddenly rang out. “Master Stark is approaching.”

            He wondered why Jarvis told him. Maybe because of the whole not wanting to find him on the floor thing? Regardless he was grateful. He managed to stretch away some of the stiffness and pull himself upright by the time Stark turned the doorknob.

           “Master Stark.” Loki swept low in his bow, fighting the urge to drop to the floor. He managed to stay upright though his good knee shook.

            Stark hardly acknowledged his bow. “Can’t believe I almost fucking forgot this. Come here, I have something else for you.”

            Loki wondered what Stark had now. He couldn’t help the nervousness that rose in him, his pulse quickening. He limped slowly towards Stark.

            “Closer. I don’t bite.” He could hear the smile in Stark’s voice.

            He came closer and closer, until he was only a foot away from Stark’s chest and his heart was beating as if it would burst. “Bow your head.”

            Loki ducked his head and suddenly Stark’s hands were beside his neck, slipping something around it and tightening it until it was snug, cool against his throat. He swallowed nervously, but Stark didn’t tighten it farther. “Go take a look.”

            Loki walked cautiously to the bathroom and faced the mirror. He was wearing a collar.

            It was made of a strange black material that he couldn’t name and there was bulge at the side of it which he assumed concealed the lock. The collar came complete with a large metal ring on the front and a silver tag with an ornate capital L carved into it. Loki stared at the ring, hoping it would never be used.

            His stomach was feeling the heat of embarrassment again, though he tried to banish it. He belonged to Stark. He had chosen this path. He just wished his new position in life wasn’t going to be broadcast quite so obviously to the world. He matched the royal mastiffs that sat at Odin’s feet.

            He brought his expression back to neutral and walked out to join Stark once more.

            Stark came close to him again, brushing his fingers against the collar, sending a shiver down Loki’s spine. “You don’t seem to like my gift.”

            Loki flinched. The words carried a hint of a threat. He swallowed and felt the collar shift around his throat. “The sight of it was just rather distracting. Thank you for the… gift.”

            “So you _do_ like it then?” Stark’s voice seemed playful but there was still an edge to it.

            The collar was pinching the skin above his Adam’s apple and he was hyper aware of his breathing. It was tight and implied all sorts of demeaning things, especially that ring. He wanted to tear it from his throat. But he had no choice. He had thrown himself on Stark’s mercy. He was lucky to be here at all. “Of course I… like it, Master.”

            “I like it too. Black is a good color on you. There’s a lot of it in your dresser. Which apparently you haven’t opened.”

            Loki blinked at him, truly distracted now. Stark went over to the dresser and pulled open a drawer, throwing a soft black piece of clothing, ‘t-shirt’ the all-speak hesitantly translated, to Loki. The shirt had triangles with wings around them emblazoned in gold on the chest.

            He hadn’t had new clothes since he entered the prison. Anything would have been better than the rags he’d had there, even the hospital gown he was still wearing now. So to see that Stark had filled a dresser with fine new clothing just for him…

            “Thank you.” This one was sincere. Though he didn’t put the shirt on. He didn’t want to change in front of Stark. He put the shirt carefully back in the drawer, noting the abundance of clothing crammed inside.

            “Don’t thank me, Jarvis did all the shopping. If anything doesn’t fit tell me and I’ll have him replace it.”

            Loki nodded, despite his confusion. Why would Stark care if his clothes were ill-fitting? What did the comfort of a convicted criminal matter?

            “Oh and a word on the collar: I know it’s tempting, but don’t play with it. I may have some kinks of my own but I didn’t put it on you just because having you wear it makes me happy. Fury wanted to make sure you’d be properly contained. Because apparently Jarvis’ control of the entire building isn’t enough of a guarantee.” Stark sounded bitter for a moment. “Anyway don’t mess with it, do what I tell you to do, and you’ll be fine.”

            The collar seemed to have grown tighter as Stark spoke, though he knew it had to be his imagination. Stark apparently noticed his discomfort. “Hey really, it’ll be fine. It’s just a security measure.”

            Loki nodded again. Just a security measure. Which meant it was probably capable of injuring or incapacitating him in some way. He just had to trust Stark not to use it wantonly. Except Stark, from what he gathered, was pretty much known for wanton behavior. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

            “So… how about a tour of the building? Sound good? Good. Follow me.”

Loki grabbed his crutches and followed Stark down the hallway past the projection room until they hit a set of silver doors. There Stark stopped.

            “This is your elevator. It’s the only way off this floor and the only other floor it will take you to is mine. The hall to the ICU is sealed off now.”

            Stark pushed the up arrow beside the elevator and held the doors back as Loki clattered inside. The only button illuminated inside was Floor 80, apparently Stark’s floor. Stark pressed it and they rode up in silence. Loki was already tiring from the effort of staying upright, but he tried to hide it in front of Stark. He was even less recovered from prison than he’d thought.

            The doors opened with a ding and Loki followed Stark out into a clean and open penthouse. They emerged near a lushly carpeted living room. Stark was already halfway to the place where stone tiles met the carpet across the room. Loki struggled to catch up. The crutches acted differently in the soft sponginess of the carpeting and he had to work not to topple over.

            Stark waited with surprising patience as Loki joined him. Then he gestured to the next space. “This is the kitchen.  I don’t dine-in very often… Pepper did much more cooking here than I’ve ever done. But I’ll be letting Jarvis know if I need you to cook anything for me. You can ask him where to find everything in the drawers and such; he has a much better memory than I do.”

            “You flatter me, sir.” Loki jumped as the AI responded. He wasn’t convinced that Jarvis was not alive or at least sentient. How could Stark have programmed such a being into existence?

            “Don’t let it go to your head.” Stark continued walking through the kitchen, where everything was either stainless steel or black. Loki followed him past the long curve of the island, over to the bar. “The alcohol is off-limits.”

            Loki nodded. Midgardian alcohol didn’t do much for him anyway. Or at least it hadn’t. It might be more effective in his weakened state. Not that he was interested in willingly incapacitating himself.

            Stark ducked down a hallway and showed him a billiards room, a surprisingly large library,  a swimming pool with an excellent view of the skyline, a miniature home theater, a full scale gym, a laundry room, and the doors to Stark’s bedroom, though he didn’t open them. “The bedroom is invitation only, capeesh?”

            Loki nodded again. The size and openness and cleanliness of the rooms after the confines of the prison was a little overwhelming. He was also sweating and struggling to hold himself steady on the crutches. He wondered when he’d last done this much walking. Probably two years ago.

            Stark lead him back to the living room. “Have a seat.”

            The couch was enormous and white. Loki felt like he’d stained it just by looking. He lowered himself to the plush carpeting as Stark perched on the arm of a recliner.

            “So. I expect you to keep both of our floors spotless. When in doubt, ask Jarvis for directions. He’ll be giving you a list of tasks each morning. Your only other job is to stay out of my way. I don’t care what you do in your free time as long as it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else. You can use the library but don’t take anything from the room. Same goes for the theater.”

            Loki could only stare at Stark’s chest. That was it? He’d spent two years in near-constant torment and now just like that, he had privileges? He could read. He could… do whatever it was that mortals did in movie theaters. Something similar to what he and Stark had done watching the clips of his attack on Midgard he assumed.

            “I know, I’m too kind for my own good.”

            Loki realized that his surprise was showing. He could feel Stark’s gaze on him but he didn’t speak. He didn’t really know what to say.

            “Well that’s everything I’ve thought of so far. I’m going out now. Be good.”

            Just like that Stark strode out of the room, back towards the elevators, leaving Loki to climb to his feet and stand hunched over his crutches. He just stood there for a moment. He didn’t know what to do. It had been so long since he’d had the freedom to move through more than one room. Let alone having access to things that people did at their leisure.

            “Jarvis?” He wished his voice didn’t sound so small in the vast airy room.

            “Yes Loki?”

            No honorific for him. He wasn’t surprised. “Am I… Does St— Does the Master of the house have any tasks for me?”

            “Master Stark has given you this evening off.”

            Loki found the abstract clock on the living room wall. It was apparently 7 pm. And he was exhausted just from walking through the handful of rooms, albeit large ones, on this floor.

            He hobbled over to the elevators, noting the fact that Stark’s floor already seemed immaculately clean. Perhaps he normally employed a cleaning service? He’d also noticed that there were few personal affects. The rooms he’d been in seemed carefully designed, full of sleek modern furniture in neutral tones. No knickknacks on shelves, hardly any pictures, though he did see one of Stark with a woman, Pepper he believed. Otherwise it was a rather cold and impersonal living space, though highly functional. Stark wasn’t one for sentiment. Loki wasn’t surprised.

            He realized he wasn’t quite sure which elevator was his. Before he could even ask the one in the farthest corner suddenly lit up. It was eerie how good Stark’s computer program was at reading expressions.

            He tried, just out of curiosity, to press different buttons in the elevator, but they only clicked hollowly at him. He wondered if Stark had had the elevator disabled, or if he’d put in this elevator especially for Loki. If he’d disabled a working elevator, Loki might be able to stop it between floors and pry his way out into the rest of the building… He suddenly wondered what his collar did exactly. Would it prevent him from leaving somehow? He didn’t know, but the idea of trying to escape and getting caught made his stomach turn.

            He got off at his floor and entered his room. He was shaking with exhaustion and his knee was throbbing violently now. He lowered himself onto the bed, reminding himself that it was fine, he had permission. Before he went to sleep there was one more thing he wanted to do. He reached up to the collar and touched the smooth black material. Nothing happened.

            Loki pinched it between his fingers and tugged. Suddenly a gentle snap of electricity stung him, not only catching his fingertips, but also buzzing against his neck. Fascinating.

            His fingers moved to the lump on the side of the collar. The moment he began prodding there a much stronger surge of electricity made him yelp, his hands flying from the collar. The effects were painful but brief.

            He couldn’t help himself. He tried prodding it again and this time he held on past the initial surge. It zapped again and this time it was not only stronger, it also lasted several seconds. The electricity shot through his muscles even after he’d removed the offending digits, making him convulse uncontrollably on the mattress. When it finally stopped he was panting.

            It was effective. If he’d been standing he probably would have fallen over when the electricity overtook him. And he had a feeling that this wasn’t its strongest setting.

            The collar’s material was certainly tough and he’d found no seams in it. He wouldn’t be getting it off anytime soon.

            His curiosity satisfied for the moment, he lowered himself down, head to the pillow. He marveled for a moment at how effortlessly comfortable he now was, despite even the ache in his ribs and the throbbing of his knee. Then he allowed that comfort to lull him back into the darkness before dreams.

 

**Can anyone guess what was on the t-shirt Tony threw to Loki? It was a horrible description so I won't blame you if you can't. It's not Marvel related so there's your hint. Also sorry I keep dividing things up by Loki's sleep cycle. In my defense he's sleeping a lot because he's in recovery. As am I. I hate cold season. Hope you all are healthy and happy with the update! Thanks for all your wonderful feedback!**

 


	10. The Hamburger Incident

**I'm back! Did you miss me? This chapter might have my favorite title so far. I went back and forth about keeping this arc but I decided hey, it's my fic so I'll publish whatever I end up writing. And this is what I ended up writing.**

 

            A sharp knock shattered his sleep and he jolted into consciousness, somewhat panicked at the feel of a mattress beneath him. Then he saw the hole in the wall and remembered where he was. There was food already waiting for him. It hadn’t woken him up. Instead Stark had and his master was now standing in the doorway looking amused as Loki scrambled out of bed and made his bow hastily, still fighting the urge to fall at least to his knees.

            “You know your dresser also holds pajamas.”

            Loki touched the thin plastic of the hospital gown he was still wearing. He hadn’t even thought of changing last night, had honestly forgotten that the dresser was there. He was so used to wearing rags… And what good was it to change when you were just going to sweat and bleed onto everything again?

            “Anyway, normally Jarvis will wake you up in the morning. I was going to see if the clothes were okay, but I guess you’ll have to tell me later. I should be back around six, give or take.”

            Stark opened the door again, then paused. “You’re not going to say good-bye?”

            The pit in his stomach opened up again. He didn’t know what Stark’s expectations were and it made him anxious. At least in his cell he’d known his role.

            “Good-bye, Master.”

            “Bye!” Then Stark was out the door. It swung shut behind him.

            Loki stared after him. It would get better, right? He would start learning Stark the way he’d learned his captors. Stay on his good side. Try not to end up back in S.H.I.E.L.D’s glaringly white basement. He just wished Stark weren’t so volatile. His captors had at least stuck to one goal—making Loki’s life a living hell. Stark didn’t seem to have that goal. Or if he did he was going about achieving it in a very odd way.

            Loki didn’t know what Stark wanted or why Stark had really rescued him. He wasn’t sure Stark saw it as rescuing, but Loki did. The old Loki would have been plotting revenge on Stark even now, for events two years passed. But now… he was just grateful. Stark had taken him out of the hands of torturers and so far had not acted in any way as if he was going to torture Loki himself. The collar was demeaning, but it was only a precaution against misbehavior thus far, not an active form of punishment. Which all came back to him not knowing what Stark wanted. Stark was an enigma.

            He didn’t have the information yet to puzzle Stark out so concluding that line of thought Loki grabbed the crutches. His ribs were aching, but not unbearably. His knee, however, was sending shooting pains up his leg. It was going to be a long day.

            He went over to the dresser and began opening drawers. The top drawer held boxers and socks. The second drawer held two pairs of cotton pajamas: green and black striped pants with solid black tops. The third drawer was the one stuffed with shirts. There were a few different colors but they were primarily black, green, and charcoal gray with various words and symbols on them, and some that were entirely plain. The bottom drawer, also the deepest, held three piles of pants- black trousers, khaki trousers, and dark blue jeans.

            As he dug through the clothes he realized that there were a few different sizes of pants, though the t-shirts were all roughly the same. He took the hospital gown off and, unsure of what he was supposed to do with it, folded it and set it on the floor beside the dresser.

            “Master Stark informed me that you may throw the gown into the garbage.”

            Loki jumped at Jarvis’ voice but he nodded and threw it into the bin in his room. Then he pulled on the black t-shirt with the strange symbol on the chest, the one Stark had tossed at him yesterday. The boxers were all one size and fit fine. He tried on several pairs of pants and found that most of them fit, though a few were too loose and a few others were short at his ankles. He ended up in a pair of dark-blue jeans. They hugged his legs fairly tightly, especially on the calves, but they were still quite comfortable.

            “Jarvis?”

            “Present.”

            Did Jarvis have a sense of humor? Loki pushed the question away. “Do you have instructions for me?”

            This time he did. Loki listened closely. It wasn’t a long list: some dusting, vacuuming, cleaning the windows in the kitchen, sweeping the tiled floor, and having dinner ready for Stark at six. He knew it would take him a while to do everything though. He still wasn’t very good with the crutches and he didn’t know where anything was.

            His stomach grumbled and he remembered the plate in the tube. This time he only hesitated a moment, reassuring himself. Stark had commanded that he eat. So he ate the scrambled eggs and sausage. The sausage was rather rich and it felt heavy in his stomach. He only managed to eat half the plate and hoped he wouldn’t be in trouble for wasting food as he put the remnants back on the shelf.

            He was still a little surprised when he tried the door and it swung open easily for him, unlocked. He would truly be free to move during the day. How strange. He took the elevator up and once he reached Stark’s floor Jarvis directed him towards the supply closet.

            For a moment he considered disobeying. What would Stark really do if he just ignored the chores and did whatever he liked?

            Of course the final answer was that he would give Loki back to S.H.I.E.L.D. Stark could tell himself he’d tried to save Loki from the torture but Loki was beyond saving. That Loki wasn’t broken he’d just been faking it to get an easier sentence. Stark’s conscience would be clear and Loki… Loki would be back to wondering what kind of pain he would experience each day.

            Loki liked to pretend that he had been faking it. That when he knelt for Fury, when he called himself a worthless criminal, that those were lies. That he was playing a long con as he had many times before. But that implied that he had plans for the future. And he simply didn’t.

            When he looked to his future he saw a vast abyss. Odin had no plans to return his magic or his immortal status. Loki wasn’t even sure if Odin’s curse had affected his lifespan or not. Perhaps Loki would age as Stark did, and die, Stark’s servant to the end. A pathetic life for the supposed god of chaos. Yet far better than dying in a concrete cell, broken and in pain as his body finally gave out beneath the endless torture.

            He wasn’t faking it. And he would prove that to Stark. Perhaps he could earn himself further privileges. At the very least he could circumvent whatever punishments Stark might give him and certainly avoid being returned to his captors’ care.

            Even the slightest thought of returning made his heart beat faster. A kind of quiet desperation filled his movements as he began gathering supplies for the tasks ahead. He would do this and he would do it well and Stark would never even consider sending him back.

            Loki had dusted and swept in Asgard as a child, but he was mostly used to cleaning with magic, especially windows and such. Who had time to polish glass? Windows in Asgard were charmed to be self-cleaning.

            This meant that he had to rely heavily on Jarvis’ instructions. He did have to admit that the talking computer was good at giving commands. Using the vacuum cleaner was the most unique experience. It purred like a cat and created powerful suction, like the vacuums for which it was named. It cleaned carpeting well, almost as well as magic. A clever invention indeed.

            Loki had finished everything except making dinner by one p.m., only taking a few breaks when his knee started aching too much or his hands started shaking from using the crutches. Then he went downstairs and took another shower, feeling the luxury of unlimited water and soap on his skin.

            He was surprised at how tired he felt. The tasks had not been strenuous, more tedious than anything. But his body ached and his eyes felt heavy. He lowered himself gingerly into bed, asking Jarvis to wake him in an hour or so. He fell asleep in moments, waking to Jarvis’ voice in exactly an hour. He took the elevator up once more and for a moment he just stood in the living room, unsure of what to do. Finally he decided to explore the library.

            He wasn’t surprised to find that many of the books inside were scientific or technological in nature, with titles that he didn’t even want to try and understand at the moment. He was sure Stark could read them easily and he wondered if Stark kept them for reference or if he considered them light reading.

            Luckily there were also sections in the library. There were numerous history books, biographies, an enormous section of science fiction/fantasy novels including several shelves dedicated to a series labelled “Star Wars”, a section of classical literature, and some miscellaneous nonfiction on subjects as far ranging as the identification of minerals and a tourist’s guide to Budapest.

            Loki had always enjoyed reading and it seemed that Stark was a reader as well; many of the books had tabs sticking out from the side, presumably marking favorite or useful passages. The library was well set up for reading or researching. Brightly lit heavy oak tables with comfortable office chairs and subtle electrical outlets at their centers formed an ideal space for researching. The plush armchairs at the edges of the room with their own yellowed lighting invited more leisurely pursuits.

           After only a moment’s hesitation (did he truly have permission?) he ran his finger down the spine of the nearest book. The familiar feeling was comforting, even if these were books of Midgard, not Asgard. He wondered what Midgardian writing was like. In Asgard few people wrote and almost none wrote for pleasure. He had read most of what existed in the All-Father’s library. Heavy tomes of ancient legends that somewhere morphed into more certain history. Dull records of lineages. The carefully rune-marked books of spells that Loki had to break into or else read with Frigga watching over his shoulder.

           He knew of only one poet currently active in Asgard and even his long and flowery lines were primarily concerned with the honor of battle or the winning of a lady’s heart in combat. That poet had once come to read at a banquet in the All-Father’s Hall. He read an epic he’d written on the escapades of Thor and the Warriors Three. Loki had actually been involved in the actions he chanted about in perfect verse but only two lines of the hour-long performance mentioned Loki’s name and only to say that he tried to enchant the enemy and failed. The poet didn’t mention that Loki’s illusion bought Thor and the Warriors Three enough time to penetrate the enemy forces in the first place. Or that Loki had slain several warriors in combat himself. Loki had rather soured on poetry after that.

            Now he wandered over to the classical literature section. If this was what Midgardians were raised on it might be good for him to know. Most of the books were fairly old in Midgardian terms, though he doubted that these were originals; they looked old but not centuries old. The simple title _Medea_ caught his eye. A Greek tragedy, as it was labeled according to the back of the book. He carried Medea to one of the armchairs and sat at its feet with his back against the leather. There was a helpful map in the front of the novel which showed him the country of Greece as well as an introduction which gave him brief notes on Greek mythology and culture. He was smiling as he read through it. He’d read some of Norse mythology on Midgard and their caricatures of Odin, Frigga, Thor, and himself. Though it wasn’t always flattering he did find it amusing.

            The Greek took a very dramatic route with their depiction of their gods, with much squabbling between them and the frequent appearance of human vices such as pride and lust. He wondered if the Greek Gods were out in the universe somewhere. If the Greeks had based them on real beings as the Norse had. He decided it might be worth researching later.

            For now he plunged into the story of Medea. Well, plunged as much as possible. He couldn’t help pulling away every few minutes to scan the room, a part of his mind still wondering when the torture would start. But sitting there reading uninterrupted, even if somewhat anxiously, was one of the most wonderful things he’d done in a very long time.

            Jarvis interrupted him at a quarter to five. “You may want to consider preparing dinner soon.”

            Loki sighed. He’d hoped to finish the play. Medea had murdered Jason’s bride-to-be and the King of Corinth and Loki was rather impressed. Jason reminded him of Thor. _I’m only doing what’s best for you_ … Yes because _you_ certainly know what that is.

            Loki once again leaned on Jarvis as he moved around the kitchen. There were a vast number of cupboards and drawers, especially considering the fact that Stark claimed not to use the room. There was a less vast amount of food in the pantry and refrigerator. It seemed that Stark depended on a well-stocked bar and a diet of potato chips and pop-tarts.

            He'd had never really learned to cook. The kitchens in the palace had more than provided for anything he’d wanted and magic filled in any gaps there might have been. Jarvis recommended that he make a Midgardian dish called “hamburgers”. Loki had seen pictures of them but had never eaten, let alone made them. Jarvis promised that it was fairly simple.

            Loki wasn’t sure what Jarvis’ definition of simple was. The meat patties he was making did not want to stick together and preferred to stick all over his fingers. The stovetop grill was difficult to navigate on crutches and he forgot to put down tinfoil so the burgers stuck like crazy.

            However he persevered and the garlic sauce he made for the burgers smelled wonderful at least. He laid out the hamburger toppings and tossed together the one bagged salad that he’d scrounged out of the fridge.

            “You may want to choose a wine to accompany the meal.”

             Jarvis’ unprompted suggestion startled him but it was clearly a good idea. He remembered Stark offering him a drink in the heat of battle. The man took his alcohol seriously. Loki darted over to the bar and Jarvis began listing options as Loki stared at the seemingly endless rows of green bottles inside the wine cellar that made up the bottom of the bar.

             He finally decided on a pinot noir and was pulling it free when Jarvis suddenly spoke. “It appears that the hamburger grease has caught fire.”

             “What?” For a moment he couldn’t even process the words. Then Loki tucked the wine bottle under his arm and took off limping as fast as he could to the stove where he could now see a torrent of smoke rising. Luckily it was being pulled into the oven fan he’d left running.

              By the time he arrived the flames had died down to spurts but they’d left four very blackened patties behind. He’d turned the grill on low, just to keep the burgers warm. He hadn’t thought that the grease could reach the gas flames licking beneath.

              His heart was pounding in his chest. There wasn’t more hamburger in the refrigerator. He couldn’t make patties to replace the ones he’d burned. He was shaking as he opened the fridge anyway and stared inside. The norns hated him. They must. His first day serving Stark properly and he’d already fucked everything up. He spied a container of deli ham tucked inside the cheese drawer. He pulled it out. It was meat and the picture on the top showed something similar to a hamburger. Maybe this would work?

              He shook his head. A cold sandwich wasn’t what Stark wanted from him and he knew it. Stark was testing him today, seeing how it went. He should have been impressing Stark, allaying any worries Stark may have had about his ability to do what Stark wanted him to do. This was worse than unimpressive. The fire could have damaged Stark’s tower. The most important part of the meal was ruined. Why was he so stupid? Why couldn’t he do anything right?

             He was trembling but he couldn’t stop. He was a failure.

             Loki was staring at the container of pinkish meat on the counter, willing it to transform into perfectly cooked hamburger patties, when the elevator dinged. His stomach lurched and he threw himself to the stone tile as Stark entered, forgetting about his knee and nearly shrieking when it hit the floor.

             There was a brief pause and then Stark sighed. “Loki I don’t have time for this today. I told you, I don’t want to find you on the floor.” Stark strode towards him. Loki didn’t move, other than continuing to quake like a frightened rabbit.

             Stark slowed as he neared Loki and the kitchen. “Did you burn something?”

             Loki shuddered and pressed himself even farther into the floor. “I’m sorry, St-Master. I didn’t realize the grease would… I was careless and stupid and it burnt. I’m sorry.”

             He huddled on the stone, waiting for blows. Stark walked around him and examined the blackened remnants of the hamburgers. He sighed again and Loki flinched.

            “Didn’t I tell you to ask Jarvis if you had questions about anything?”

            “Yes Master.” The computer probably knew a safer way to keep food warm. Loki hadn’t thought to ask.

            “I guess I’m lucky nothing else caught on fire.” Stark sounded bitter and tired.

            Loki wondered what Stark would do. He had failed Stark’s command. There would be consequences. Loki just wasn’t sure what they would be.

            “I probably shouldn’t have set my estimation of your abilities quite so high.”

            Loki nodded miserably. Without his magic he was useless. He couldn’t even cook a simple meal without screwing it up.

            Stark walked away, opened a door somewhere, shut it, and then returned. Loki still hadn’t moved from the floor. Stark reached down and grabbed the ring on Loki’s collar. Click.

            Then there was a sharp tug on Loki’s neck. He lifted his head. Stark stood before him, holding a thick green and silver leash which he’d attached to Loki’s collar.

             “Come on, get up.”

              Loki got to his feet and reached for the crutches, but Stark pulled them from his hands. “I don’t know if you purposely disobeyed me or if you just have really shitty luck, but I told you, I have zero tolerance for disobedience.”

             Fear coursed through him. Stark was going to bring him back to the prison. He was going back to the pain, the starvation, the cold. He began babbling desperately. “It was an accident, Master. I was being obedient, I swear. Please don’t send me back. Please don’t.”

            “You keep saying you’ll be obedient but I don’t know why I should believe you.”

            Trickster. Liar. Labels that haunted him even now when he really had changed. Stark tugged Loki towards the elevators and Loki hobbled after him, his knee throbbing painfully though he tried to keep it still. Stark was going to lock him in his room and then he was going to call Fury and that would be the end. Loki would go back to his cell, to his captors, to the unending pain. Tears flooded Loki’s eyes. “Please, I’ll do anything you ask! You can punish me however you like, Master! Just don’t send me back. Please!”

             Stark gave a sharp yank on the leash and Loki stumbled forward, wincing as his left foot scraped the floor and pulled on his knee. “I don’t get off on other people’s pain Loki. That’s part of why I didn’t want to take you in the first place. I knew something like this would happen and I’m not going to tie you to a wall and whip you. That’s not… that’s not who I am. But I also can’t have you messing stuff up and thinking everything will be okay if you just get all teary and pathetic afterwards. Do you see the problem here?”

             “I… I understand.” Loki felt himself going limp. He wanted to argue. It _was_ an accident. He didn’t ruin Stark’s dinner on purpose. He had been being good.

             But he had lost his silver tongue in prison and all he had now was a screaming voice in the back of his head telling him that maybe if he dropped to the floor and started licking Stark’s shoes Stark would realize that he was good. That he would be obedient. Loki was seriously considering that option and the likeliness that Stark would have mercy on him once more when Jarvis suddenly spoke…

 

**I struggled a lot with where to cut this chapter and I'm still not sure this is the best place, but I didn't want to post one weirdly long humongo chapter so here's a traditional fanfiction cliffie! I can't get away from the angst, can I? But since I think it's a big part of why you're all reading this I suppose that's not a bad thing... Thanks as always for the awesome comments, you motivate me to keep writing and keep improving the fic!**

 

 


	11. Freedom is a Length of Chain

            **Dun. Dun. Dun! Here's the cliffhanger reveal that hopefully will not disappoint you, my faithful audience. Also, shoutout to any SPN fans who might get my slightly modified reference in the chapter title!**

 

            “If I may interject, sir, Loki’s behavior did not seem defiant. I interpreted the mishap as a simple misjudgment.”

            Stark paused and Loki felt the leash go slack, allowing him to catch his breath around the tears, standing shakily on his good leg.

            “You interpreted it as a ‘simple misjudgment’?” Stark sounded dubious.

            “That was my analysis of his actions. I can show you my recordings of the incident if you wish to judge for yourself.”

            “You’re saying he burned my dinner on accident?”

            “Yes.” Jarvis sounded firm.

            Stark sighed again and then finally spoke to Loki.

            “Well, you got Jarvis on your side. And if he’s willing to vouch for you I’m not going to ship you back to S.H.I.E.L.D tonight.”

            Loki felt his shoulders drop with relief. His voice came out weak and wobbly. “Thank you, Master.”

            “My food is still in ashes though.”

            Loki waited for Stark’s judgment. It didn’t matter if Stark punished him, or how he did so or for how long. He wasn’t going back to his captors. That was all that mattered.

            “Come on.” Stark tugged on the leash as if Loki hadn’t been following all along, stumbling as quickly as he could. They still headed toward the elevators and Loki was filled with uncertainty.

            But they didn’t go to his elevator. Instead they entered a different one and Stark pushed the button for the roof. Loki leaned against the elevator wall as they shot upwards. His knee was screaming at him but it still hurt much less now than it had when it was first injured. He imagined what his captors would do to him if they got him back. He shuddered and focused instead on where he was now and the fact that Stark had already said he wasn’t going back there. At least not tonight.

            The doors finally opened and immediately a chill breeze hit them. Loki didn’t know the date exactly but it was autumn now and already dark outside. This was his first breath of truly fresh air since his capture. It tasted tantalizingly like freedom.

            Stark lead him across the roof and he tried not to imagine how pathetic he looked, dragged by a leash, barely able to stay upright as he hobbled after his Master. He wondered if anyone could see them right now. He knew that Odin could, if he chose to look. The All-Father must have laughed many times now, seeing Loki brought so low. _You may learn humility yet_ , he imagined Odin saying. _All-Father, I have_ , he would answer. To his surprise there was no bitterness in that reply, even in his imagination. Pride had only hurt him. Humility offered paths if not free of pain than at least far less painful.  

            The roof was an enormous concrete rectangle with a helipad in the far corner. On the side closest to them, however, there was a large green lawn with a neatly kept garden, a fountain trickling quietly in its center.

            Stark headed for the fountain, pulling Loki past rosebushes still dotted with fading blooms. They smelled heavenly. Stark came to a stop a few feet from the fountain. Loki waited, wondering if Stark was going to shove him into the water. He imagined that it would be quite frigid. He was still in a simple t-shirt and jeans and he already had goosebumps. He remembered his captors holding his head down, the rising panic as the need for air burned in his lungs. He stiffened.

            But Stark was bending over, the leash tugging Loki’s head down slightly. He grabbed something from the ground. It was a heavy steel chain. As Stark pulled it up Loki saw that the other end was attached to a large metal stake in the lawn.

            Stark seemed to be contemplating it, running the metal through his hands. “Sometimes my visitors bring dogs.” There was a pause. Stark turned back to Loki. “When I had a dog growing up he lived in the house with us. But sometimes he’d get bored while we were away and he’d chew something up, make a mess in the house. My father would get mad and he’d chain him out in the yard. He claimed he was letting the dog think about what he’d done. And I have to say the dog was always thrilled when he got back into the house. He wouldn’t chew anything up for at least a few weeks afterwards.”

            Loki followed Stark’s chain of thought easily. He held still as Stark clipped the chain to his collar and removed the leash. Immediately he felt the weight of the chain unbalancing him. He wondered just how large the dogs were that his visitors dragged along.

            “Unlike a dog you have thumbs. But also unlike a dog, you can understand when I tell you that if I come back and find you off this chain it will not go well for you.”

            Loki shivered. “Yes Master.”

            “If you get thirsty you can drink from the fountain. It’s filtered. But if you do… dogs don’t drink with their paws.” There was a hint of playfulness in Stark’s voice but Loki knew better than to think it meant he could ignore that stipulation.

             “Thank you Master.” If he was out here long enough to get thirsty the fountain would have quickly turned into a form of torture, had Stark forbidden him to drink.

            Stark looked surprised but he didn’t respond, merely began tucking the leash back into his pocket.

            Loki wondered how long Stark was going to leave him out here. A quick glimpse of Stark’s tired face made him think that Stark himself probably hadn’t made up his mind on that. It also made Loki feel a sudden surge of guilt and anxiety. He had already become Stark’s burden simply by living in the tower, without the added issue of disobedience and the correction it warranted. Why was he disobedient? So ungrateful? Stark had shown him kindness and Loki couldn’t even manage cooking him dinner in return. Loki kicked himself inwardly. Pathetic.

             Stark turned and headed back into the tower. Loki stood where he’d been left for a moment. Then he lowered himself to the cool grass, his bad knee trembling. It was going to be a long night.

 

            At first Loki honestly appreciated being outside. The air, though polluted by the large human population of the area, still retained some of its wild quality. He could glimpse a few of the brightest stars beyond the light pollution and the plants that surrounded him perfumed the air with the scent of rose and marigold. He could almost pretend he was back in his Frigga’s garden, safe and protected and somehow still loved.

            But the longer he was on the roof the colder it got. Night deepened and the wind picked up. The stars vanished as clouds rolled in. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been on the roof when it started to rain.

            It wasn’t a heavy rain, not even worthy of the title of rainstorm, but to his already cold skin it felt like being pricked with slivers of ice. The drizzle lasted well over an hour and left him with his hands curled into his armpits, his hair flattened to his forehead, his shirt and jeans plastered to his skin. He couldn’t stop shivering.

           Even worse, the wind hadn’t stopped. It kept winding around him, running his skin into goosebumps, making his cheeks and nose burn with cold. He never used to get cold. It was a sensation he’d scarcely known before his imprisonment. But since then he’d learned to hate it. It simply never went away. It could take days to truly recover from a bad chill and even then a new dose of cold would start the process all over. It made his skin go numb and his teeth chatter and his nose run. It was miserable.

            He thought that maybe Stark had heard the rain and that now he’d come up and take pity on him. But what kind of punishment would that be? Loki shook his head. He was being stupid again. Why would Stark care if he was wet and cold? That was the _point_. As another hour passed he realized that Stark probably wouldn’t come out again until morning. He just had to endure. If this was what it took to stay in this relative paradise, he would give it gladly.

            He couldn’t decide if removing his clothes would make him more miserable or less. The dampness clung to the fabric, but without it he’d be totally exposed to the wind. He ended up leaving the clothing on. He curled up in a ball in the damp grass and tried to sleep but he woke shivering every quarter hour.

            So Loki gave up on sleep and instead sat with his back against the cement of the fountain, listening to the soothing sound of running water. He thought about the chain around his neck. He could unclip it easily. A simple movement was all it would take. Then he could huddle in the entryway to the tower. If he heard Stark coming he could run back over to the chain and refasten it. How would Stark know?

            But he wouldn’t really be able to run with his knee the way it was. Not fast enough that Stark wouldn’t see him before he made it back. Besides, he was fairly certain Jarvis could see up here. Then Stark would know regardless of how fast Loki ran. And if Stark caught him off the chain he would be sent back to S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison. He shuddered, for once not with cold. It wasn’t worth it.

            He decided to try moving, see if that would warm his body. The chain only gave him nine feet in diameter to move. Still he continued hobbling in circles for a while, until his knee started aching through the numbness and he began to feel ridiculous. Pacing like a true hound.

            Loki imagined again what he looked like, bedraggled, chained to a post in the yard like a disobedient pet. Maybe Stark would have pity on him soon if he looked as pathetic as he felt.

            The night must have been more than half over when his stomach took up the chorus of complaint. He tried to ignore it. He’d gone hungry so long in prison that this should have felt like nothing. Yet comparing past ills to present never worked. The hunger was as sharp and aching as it always was, the feeling unchanged. He hated that about his less-than-immortal form. It never got used to anything. It was so attuned to every pain, every sensation in general. He’d think that he’d adjusted and then he’d move and just like that all the pain flooded back.

            Again he tried to curl up and sleep. The wind had let up a little but the air seemed even colder. He still woke up shivering.

 

            Dawn found him stiff and frigid, propped against the fountain again. He prayed that Stark would appear in the doorway soon. His neck ached with the weight of the chain and his knee was the only warm part of him, warm with stinging pain. His shirt was mostly dry but his jeans were still damp. He couldn’t feel his toes except for the occasional zing of smothered pain and his head was aching.

He wanted inside. He understood now the longing gaze he’d seen on the hunting dogs’ faces when everyone tumbled inside after the hunt, leaving the hounds out in the evening air. Inside there was warmth and light and food. Outside there was only cold and damp and loneliness.

            He watched the sun rising in the sky and had to admit that at least it was beautiful, a pale pink shooting into brighter orange and before finally reaching blue. The clouds were gone and the sky was perfectly clear. He could hear birds chirping in the city below. And still Stark did not come for him.

            Soon the sun was giving off some actual warmth and Loki was thankful that his shirt was black. It pulled the extra heat to his chest. He stripped off the jeans finally, painfully peeling the fabric from his knee, and put them on the fountain lip to hopefully dry in the sun. He had gotten thirsty too. He lowered his head into the fountain and drank as Stark had commanded, pressing his lips into the water, his hands gripping the fountain edge. The water ran down his chin as he pulled away. It was frigid but it tasted clean. Unfortunately it made his stomach ache, all the more aware of his hunger.

            He tried to stretch out but the chain swung and made it hard for him to balance on his good leg. He felt like an old man, stiff-limbed and slow. His jeans were nearly dry so he put them back on. Where was Stark?

            The sun passed its zenith and a little spike of fear entered his heart. What if Stark never came back?

            He shook his head. That was true dog thinking. My owner is gone so he must never be coming back. Foolishness. Yet now his thoughts wouldn’t stop circling back. Perhaps this was a test. How long would Loki stay obedient, remain on the chain even with no sign that anyone was watching or that anyone would be coming to let him off?

            He didn’t know the answer to that question himself. He pondered it for a while but all he could come up with was at least through today. He wondered if his collar would zap him if he tried to leave the chain. For all he that knew, it would. He didn’t want to find out. And he didn’t want to be caught escaping. He didn’t touch the chain.

            He’d been ignoring the growing pressure on his bladder but finally he had to walk to the bush that the chain allowed him to reach and relieve himself against it. Then Loki curled up in the grass. It was dry now and the sun was warm on him, even if the air temperature still wasn’t really comfortable. He tucked his hands into his armpits once more and tried for sleep.

 

            **Imagining Loki out on the rooftop honestly just made me want to give him a hug. But alas this is not that kind of story... Thank you guys again for your comments. I'm a little overwhelmed by the support this fic is getting, especially for my first on this site. Reading them just makes my day! :)  
**

 

 


	12. Learning

           **Here, have a longer chapter, mostly because I'm bad at cutting chapters and also I probably won't be posting anything next week (sorry in advance!). Hopefully this doesn't have too many errors, I edited this one less than usual..**

 

            When he finally woke several hours had passed. The sun was fully in the west, edging inevitably back to the horizon. He felt better having slept but his stomach was a fierce ache in his side and the air was already growing colder and he wondered if Stark had forgotten about him. Wouldn’t Jarvis remind him?

            Maybe Stark planned to leave him out here for a few days. Remind him of the hunger, the cold that existed if Stark didn’t take care of him. Stark had fed him. Loki hadn’t repaid that kindness. That was why he was out here.

            He promised himself he’d do better. He hadn’t been using his head before. He’d acted stupidly and he’d wasted time reading when he could have been planning the dinner, preventing the disaster before it ever struck. He’d been lazy and ungrateful and unthinking. He wished Stark could hear him so he could tell him that. So he could apologize and hope that Stark let him back in.

            Was this what Stark wanted him to realize? That he’d thought he wasn’t being disobedient but really he had been? Because if he’d been truly obedient he’d have put all of his effort into following Stark’s commands. Instead he’d been taking half-measures. Not knowing where things were or how to cook Midgardian food wasn’t really an excuse. Loki wasn’t stupid and Stark knew that. Loki should’ve been able to figure it out, especially with Jarvis’s help. But instead he hadn’t thought things through and he’d ruined Stark’s dinner and now he was out on the roof, feeling the cold creep back in.

            He felt somewhat disoriented. He drank more of the crisp fountain water and it helped clear his head again somewhat. He was being good now. He was being obedient. Stark would see that and he wouldn’t ship him back to S.H.I.E.L.D. Stark would realize that Loki was trying his best now even if he hadn’t been before. Stark had to realize that.

            The sky in the west was a blaze of color now and he watched the sun set, somehow still enjoying the sight even as it meant that his skin grew colder and he began to shiver again. He was tired but he knew he couldn’t sleep now that it was cold. He wasn’t bored exactly, he was too anxious to be bored, but his thoughts just ran in circles and it was driving him a little bit mad.

            He curled up in the grass again, into the impression he’d now made in the lawn. A tiny bit of his warmth came back up from the ground and he tried to savor that. At least it hadn’t gotten any colder than yesterday. And maybe it wouldn’t rain tonight. He might actually get a little sleep then. If he wasn’t wet and miserable this time.

            Suddenly he heard a muffled click. If he’d had ears they would have perked towards the sound. The door to the roof opened and Stark came strolling leisurely towards him on a wave of yellow light pouring from the stairwell. Relief flooded through him. Part of him wanted to be angry at Stark for leaving him exposed to the elements, hungry and cold, chained out like a dog. But the last thing he wanted to do was anger Stark now and stay out here even longer. And anyway, he was the one who messed up; he was out here for a reason.

He lurched to his feet and bowed, nearly falling over as the chain yanked back against the sudden pull. Loki managed to keep upright though.

            Stark had the leash in his hand and Loki couldn’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed about walking on a leash. Stark had returned to release him.

            “Master Stark.” His words emerged raspy but clear.

            Stark seemed wary for some reason, eyeing Loki with suspicion. Loki didn’t move, just stood by the fountain as Stark came nearer and nearer. Loki could feel warmth radiating from him and he couldn’t help himself. He leaned closer to the heat. By the norns, Stark must be part furnace! Stark smelled like musk and metal and a hint of whisky. Loki hadn’t noticed that before.

            Stark pushed him back gently. “Okay, okay, you’re happy to see me. Do you have anything you want to say to me?”

            He swallowed the tiny spark of anger that still festered inside him. This was his punishment and he had endured it and all would be forgiven. He’d been good and Stark had to know that by now.

            So Loki made himself say the things he’d thought, the things he hoped were the right things, the things Stark wanted him to say. “I want to apologize, Master. I was trying to be obedient before but I know now that I wasn’t truly. I was thinking of myself before you and I shouldn’t have spent so much time in the library; I should have been planning dinner. And I’ll try harder now, I swear. I won’t be disobedient. I won’t be a burden to you.”

            The words came out sincere. Stark seemed surprised but not angry anymore. Which meant Loki had probably guessed right and he wasn’t going to prison! A giddy happiness filled him.

            “I’m glad you spent your time out here thinking. It looks like this was a genuine mistake, but you could’ve started a serious fire. I just want you to think things through next time. Use that big alien brain of yours, okay?”

            Loki nodded and Stark broke into a crooked smile. “So, think you’re ready to come back inside now? Or haven't you had enough fresh air?”

            Loki tensed. Stark’s tone was hard to decipher, somewhere between teasing and fatherly and Loki was no longer very good at detecting sarcasm. He’d been outside for at least 24 hours now. He was cold and hungry and sore. But he hesitated. If Stark was actually still angry he didn’t want to make it worse by choosing a lighter punishment than his Master wanted. He remembered choosing his punishments in prison. Every time he’d chosen what he thought was the lighter punishment it had ended worse for him somehow. It was safer to defer to Stark.

            “If… If you think it’s been enough Master. I have trouble knowing when I’ve been punished enough; my captors said so all the time. I will trust your judgment.” Loki ached for warmth, for food. But he wouldn't die if Stark left him chained another night. And he would rather be left out here to die than be returned to prison anyway.

            The roof grew quiet. The only sound was the wind as it began to pick up again. Loki kept his gaze trained on Stark’s chest. Stark was wearing a jacket and the mysterious glow wasn’t visible through it.

            “Jesus Loki, what did they do to you?” Stark finally asked.

            Loki didn’t know how to answer that question. Stark sounded upset but Loki didn’t know why. He had answered Stark’s question the best way he knew how.

            “I left you chained to a rooftop for 24 hours straight. It got down to the thirties last night, _after_ it rained. And you never even touched the chain. I kept waiting for you to do something and you just…” Stark gestured loosely at him.

            “You wanted me to try to escape… Master?” This made no sense at all. Didn’t Stark want Loki to behave?

            “I mean not exactly. It makes my life a hell of a lot easier if you don’t. But I thought that you… you know what, nevermind.”

            Stark reached over and unclipped the chain and Loki gratefully felt the weight leave his neck. “Thank you, Master.”

            “Let’s just get inside. You’re freezing.” Stark attached the leash to Loki’s collar and Loki limped after him eagerly. He tried to keep up even though he was stiff and his knee was a ball of fire.

            They reached the door to the roof and Stark seemed to realize Loki was struggling because he slowed drastically once they were inside. The warm air felt like heaven on his skin, though he broke out in goosebumps again. Strange mortal reactions.

            Stark lead him to the elevator and they rode back down to Stark’s floor, then immediately took the elevator to Loki’s room. Loki was shaking with the effort of staying upright, struggling to hobble inside. To his surprise the crutches were leaning against his bed. Stark hadn’t taken them permanently.

            There was also a bowl of something waiting for him in the square by the door. “Jarvis will wake you up tomorrow. Just… be good, okay?”

            Loki nodded, though he wasn’t sure why Stark felt like he need to remind Loki to do what Loki was already trying to do. “Good night, Master.”

            “Good night.”

            Stark left and Loki made himself fetch the bowl from the square. It was full of a yellow broth which had chicken, vegetables, and noodles floating in it. It tasted amazing and seemed to warm him from the inside out. He had a feeling Stark had chosen it for that purpose. Stark was a kind Master. Loki didn’t even mind calling him Master. It was better than captor by far.

            When he’d finished eating his exhaustion sank in. He used the bathroom and then crawled into bed, only hesitating a moment this time. He would serve Stark better tomorrow and Stark wouldn’t need to punish him again and they would both be happier. Because for some reason Stark disliked punishing him. Probably more than Loki actually disliked being punished by him. It didn’t make sense. Loki had earned his punishment. But if Stark wasn’t going to discipline him very frequently, it was all the better for Loki. He curled up beneath the covers, shivering with newfound warmth, and fell easily to sleep.

 

 

            Jarvis woke Loki the next day with his calm robotic voice. Stark had another list for him, more cleaning, but it was a short list. Cooking was noticeably absent and for some reason that bothered Loki. He wanted to try again. To prove that he _could_ do whatever Stark asked of him. But he supposed that Stark wasn’t ready to let him and who was he to question?

            He changed into a new set of clothes, this time a solid gray top and black pants. It felt strange looking at all of the options he had now. Knowing he could choose any of them. Choices. He remembered those. Part of him relished having them. And part of him was terrified because having choices meant you could make bad ones. The norns knew he had a history with those.

            The day passed uneventfully. Loki threw himself into the tasks Stark had given him, striving for perfection as he polished glass and silverware. It took longer and meant that he wasn’t done until 3, but he was certain that there was no hint of disobedience in any of his work. His kneed ached constantly after the abuse the night before, but it was nothing he couldn’t ignore. He curled up in the library afterwards, leaning against the leather once again to finish Medea.

            The ending earned its label, tragedy. Medea had her revenge upon Jason. But it cost her the lives of her own children. She was left with her magic, her freedom. And two tiny graves.

            He didn’t want to think about children. Had he made the same choices as Medea? _No_. The answer was vicious in his mind. Odin had made those choices for him. That knowledge was the only solace Loki had. Loki would have traded his magic, his freedom, for them. Had he had a choice. He’d even have traded his pride. Probably would have even before now. Now when he had lost both magic and freedom and gained nothing. He wondered if Medea found happiness elsewhere in Midgard. He thought it unlikely.

            He was reading the list of other Greek plays in the back of the book, wondering if he should try another, as this one had been well-written if bleak, when the door to the library opened.

            Scrambling to his feet Loki hurried to complete his bow. “Master Stark.” What was Stark doing here?

            Stark walked over in his usual amble of a gait.  “Doing some light reading?” He peered at the book in Loki’s hand. “Medea? Nevermind, wouldn’t call that light.”

            Loki nodded. He wasn’t quite sure of the phrase light reading, but Medea was all darkness.

            “What do you think of my library?”

            “It’s a beautiful library.” Loki wasn’t lying. The room was his favorite of the few he was allowed to enter. “And your collection appears extensive, though since this is my first selection I can’t speak much to the quality of the tomes…”

            “Are there libraries on Asgard?”

            “There is one. Odin’s, in the palace. There are some private collections but I’d hesitate to call them libraries. They were more specific in nature.”

            “Mmm. Any experience curating them?” Stark was looking at him with a sparkle in his eye.

            “Me? Not really.” He had no idea where Stark was going with this and that made him nervous.

            “But you read a lot? I mean you read Medea at a pretty fast clip.”

            He wondered how Stark knew how fast he’d read it. “I enjoy reading, yes. And I have nearly exhausted all there is to read in Asgard.”

            “Good enough for me. I want you to reorganize my library. I like the sections, you can keep those, but right now there’s no order within the sections. I’m thinking alphabetical by last name would be the way to go.”

            “Alphabetical?” Loki repeated the term hesitantly.

            “Yeah. You know, in the same order the letters of the alphabet go in?”

            “I don’t… I don’t know your alphabet.”

            “What?” Stark just stared at him. Loki felt a rush of anxiety. He knew it probably sounded like he was trying to dodge an order and that’s not what he was doing at all.

            “All-speak doesn’t work that way, it translates word for word, sound for sound, I’ve never needed to learn your alphabet.” The words came out in a rush.

            “So you can read English. You can write English. You can speak English. But you don’t know the alphabet?”

            “All-speak is the magic which allows us to communicate in any foreign tongue. Odin left me with it or I would speak only… I believe you would call it old Norse. I can circumvent the All-speak but otherwise it will translate my words to you and yours to me. So I can look at your letters and know what sounds they make in each context, and look at your words and know them as if they were in old Norse. But I don’t know an alphabet beyond the runic one I learned as a child.”

            There was a moment’s silence and Loki wondered if Stark was going to get angry. Instead he just murmured, “Fascinating.”

            “Jarvis?” Stark called. “I need you to teach Loki the alphabet. Shouldn’t be too hard, I’ve never heard anyone accuse him of being stupid.”

            Except when it came to making decisions. But Loki didn’t voice that thought. “So you want me to learn your alphabet and then…?”

            “Then I want you to go through each section in here and put the books in alphabetical order by last name.”

            It sounded like a rather daunting task. In fact he wondered if it was further punishment. He couldn’t be trusted in the kitchen so he’d be put to work in the library where nothing could catch on fire. Stark must have seen that thought on his face because he rolled his eyes at Loki. “You’ll have Jarvis if you need help. And this is more like an ongoing project for you, something to work on when you’re not checking things off the list.”

            Loki nodded hesitantly. What else could he do?

            “I don’t have a timeline for when I need it done or anything, just as long as I can see some progress.”

            “Yes, Master.”

            “Well, I’m going to grab dinner. Yours is probably waiting downstairs too. See you around.”

            “Good bye, Master.”

            Stark left the library. Loki put Medea back up on her shelf. Her soon to be reorganized shelf.  He looked around. There were hundreds if not thousands of books in the room. But it wasn’t like he had other things to do. And Stark was right, learning the alphabet couldn’t be that difficult. Children did it easily.

            Loki hobbled out to take his elevator down for dinner. He was surprised to realize that he was actually pleased to have a project. Something to plan, something to strategize about. It had been so long since he’d had something like this. Cleaning, while work, didn’t require much of his brain. This wouldn’t require much either, at least once he’d learned the English alphabet, but it still would take some thought. Some mental care. And he was looking forward to the challenge.

 

**This chapter turned out slower than I wanted, but I've always wanted to explore how All-Speak works, like a little magical language filter! I'm almost caught up to the few more scenes I have planned for this story so posting might be slowing down for a while. I'll try to keep up but plotting is not my strong suite (and you guys read way faster than I can write!). Thanks as always for the feedback; seeing your comments in my inbox is like seeing a double-rainbow in real life!**

 


	13. Leftovers

            **Did you miss me? I missed you! I enjoy posting new chapters and getting your feedback on them! So I'm glad to be back and I hope you are too :)**

 

            Jarvis decided that the best way to teach Loki the alphabet would be to play numerous clips of various people of all ages singing a ridiculous alphabet song until Loki went half-mad. All while he cleaned it was “A, b, c, d, e, f, g…”

            The song wasn’t even that long! Now he knew his a b c’s indeed! He felt like throttling someone for the first time in a long time. Jarvis finally shut it off. The silence was deafening. And then he realized to his horror that the song was in his head even with the speakers off.

            It was a miserable time, but he had to admit that it worked. Jarvis had him go to the library after the cleaning was done and point to various letters. He had Loki pick random titles and put them in alphabetical order in various ways.

            By the end of the second day Loki was arranging them correctly nearly every time.

            By the end of the third day he threatened Jarvis that he’d hunt him down and silence him physically if he played the song one more time. No matter how impossible that task might prove.

            On the fourth day he actually began the project. He’d decided to start small, with a section called Travel that only took up one shelf. It wasn’t too difficult and there was something soothing in it, putting things in their place. He had Jarvis check it over after he was done and Jarvis agreed that he’d organized them perfectly. He felt a small thrill of pride at that. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

            Stark had left on a business trip or some other matter. The tower was quiet and Loki tried not to think of it as isolated. Loki ate three complete and wonderful, if simplistic, meals a day. He showered each morning, still savoring the luxury of it, still tensing every time he turned the knob, wondering if this would be the time when this dream would end and no water would emerge. So far that hadn’t happened.

            Jarvis taught him to do laundry for both himself and Stark and while he didn’t enjoy it, he was happy enough to have clean clothing that he didn’t really care. He worked hard at every task Stark gave him, regardless of whether the man was home or not. Jarvis was always present after all. And anyway he had little else to do.

            He was amazed to find that his ribs had healed and it no longer hurt to breathe if he walked too fast. Even more amazing was the idea that they would not be broken again soon. That no one was going to drag him out of bed and beat him. That he wouldn’t wake up to find the door locked and the pipes from the sink and shower removed.

           He still wondered occasionally if he was going to snap out of it one day and find himself in his cell again, so broken that he no longer could tell fiction from reality. But those moments were slowly getting rarer.

            He could tell that his knee was healing too. It only ached towards the end of the day now, or if he tried to bend it too much. In another week he would probably be free of the crutches. Then all that would remain of his captors’ work would be the scars within him. He didn’t know if those would ever go away.

            When Stark came back he knew because suddenly, at the end of the list of usual chores, Jarvis added “have dinner ready at seven”. A shiver ran down his spine. He was being given a second chance.

            That day he worked harder than ever. He did the housework quickly but with care; he’d already grown much more efficient since he first started. There was something soothing in the ritual sameness of cleaning, though sometimes it frustrated him; his work was undone so quickly. But all he could do was work faster.

            He moved on after lunch to finish the section of the library he’d begun sorting the day before. He had perhaps a quarter of the library organized now. A little more if you counted the Stars Wars section that he didn’t have to touch because it was in numerical order.

            Finally he set about planning dinner. Stark must have ordered groceries because there were actually ingredients to choose from. Not that Loki had any idea what Stark would like. For that he relied on Jarvis, who recommended something called “fajitas” and pointed him to a cookbook in the kitchen.

            After the debacle with the hamburgers he was determined to do things right. Which apparently began with marinating the meat, a process he had never heard of. Cutting the chicken was simple, though he had to rely on Jarvis again for portioning. He assumed that chickens must be rather small creatures. He could imagine Thor eating several of them whole. But mortals of course did not have quite so robust appetites.

            He poured together the required liquids and seasonings for the marinade and laid the chicken in it. Apparently that was all that had to be done and the chicken would absorb the flavor on its own.

            Next he set about cutting the numerous required vegetables, most of which were comparable to vegetables in Asgard. The onion was by far the worst with a pungent odor that seemed to attack his entire face, making his eyes water. He had to assume the taste was worth the punishment of the chopping.

            When that was done he laid everything else he needed on the counter, excepting the dairy, which Jarvis had informed him had to stay refrigerated. The tortillas he would warm on the stove just before serving. Some of the vegetables would be sautéed, the rest set out for Stark to add as he wished. Satisfied that he’d pulled everything together, he went to set the table.

            He laid out the singular place mat and accompanying silverware by Jarvis’ direction. He decided where he would place each ingredient for easy access. And he picked out the wine ahead of time, no distractions.

            Then finally it was time for the actual cooking. As he lit the stove he sent up a silent plea that the norns favor him. Because he honestly didn’t know what would happen if he screwed up again.

            Either someone was listening or Loki’s intense focus prevented him from doing anything too stupid because everything turned out looking like the pictures next to the recipe. Even the Spanish rice he’d made from a box looked and smelled fairly appetizing.

            He put out all the vegetables and the dairy products (sour cream sounded horrible but the recipe recommended it…) with special scooping utensils for them. He had the wine at the ready and he kept a very low flame beneath an empty pan going, ready for him to throw in a tortilla to warm as soon as Stark walked in. It was 7:00.

            By 7:10 Loki was starting to get a little concerned. He hoped the lids over the rice and chicken would keep them hot enough.

            By 7:20 Loki was pacing the kitchen, keeping one eye on the flame beneath the empty pan. Where was Stark? What would he do with the food if Stark didn’t come? What if the food was ruined from sitting out by the time Stark arrived?

            Then at 7:25 he finally heard the elevator. He threw a tortilla in the pan and swept the motion into a bow. “Master Stark, welcome home.”

            Stark peeled away his coat as he came into the kitchen, throwing it over the back of a chair. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was a bitch. But it smells amazing in here!”

            “Thank you, Master.” It was becoming more natural to use the title and Loki wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He carried the rice and the chicken to the table, then put a freshly warmed tortilla on Stark’s plate.

            “May I pour you a glass of wine?”

            Stark nodded, looking somewhat surprised. Loki carefully filled his cup, willing his hands to be steady. They were good enough to be a surgeon’s.

            Everything was ready then and Loki didn’t know what he should do. Stand near in case Stark needed him? Entertain Stark in some way? Leave Stark to eat in peace?

            “You can sit at the table with me, if you’re okay with that.”

            Loki slowly came around to the chair facing Stark. He hadn’t sat in a chair since before his capture. At least not unless you counted the chair in which they tortured him. But that was more lying, not sitting, and of course he was strapped into that one…

            He pulled the chair out and lowered himself ever so gently into it. The vinyl seat was fairly comfortable but he couldn’t relax. He perched on the edge of the seat instead, ready to spring up if he needed to. He tried to ignore the strong sense that this was wrong. That he should get off the furniture.

            “If you’re uncomfortable you can stay standing, I just thought maybe it was the permission thing again.”

            Loki nodded. “I’m just… unused to it.” He didn’t stand up. He could do this. It was only a chair and not even a very nice one. Nice enough to fit Stark’s standards, but nothing like that pure white couch that he could ruin with a touch.

            Stark had begun building the fajita, apparently very familiar with the dish. Loki watched curiously as he added item after item. Then finally he wrapped up the edges of the tortilla and took a bite. Loki waited, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach.

            Stark swallowed and then looked at him. He grinned. “You make a fucking awesome fajita.”

            Loki smiled back, relieved. “Thank you, Master. Jarvis helped me find the recipe.”

            “Don’t give thumbless the credit! You probably would’ve gotten the same advice from google.”

            “I rather resent that remark, sir.”

            “Alright, amendment, you would’ve gotten the same information but way slower and with less flare.” Stark glanced upwards as if seeking Jarvis’ approval.

            “I do try my best with flare.”

            Stark chuckled, “I know you do. Thanks Jarv. But seriously Loki, nice work.”

            Loki nodded and Stark proceeded to demolish the rest of the fajita. Loki scrambled out of the chair to heat another tortilla while Stark got some of the Spanish rice. Stark ate two servings of rice and three fajitas all told, which Loki thought was a respectable quantity for a mortal. Though he did groan afterwards as if painfully full.

            Then Stark hauled himself to his feet. “I’m gonna fall into a food coma now.”

            Loki paled and felt his heart lurch in his chest as he scrambled to Stark’s side. “Have I poisoned you? Can it be counteracted? Do you—”

            Stark held up a hand as his shoulders shook with laughter. “Oh my God. That’s some funny shit. No, I don’t need medical attention, I’m fine. It’s just an expression. You know, for when you eat a lot and get really tired afterwards and have to go sleep it off?”

            Loki felt his heartrate slow again as embarrassment replaced the fear. He didn’t know the sensation Stark was describing and his face must have shown that.

            “It’s not important, nothing bad. It was a good dinner. You can have some of the leftovers from it, by the way. I know it’s hard to cook for one and I tend to forget leftovers exist, so if I ask you to cook and there’s anything left afterwards, feel free to eat it.”

            Loki just stared at Stark. Servants did not eat the same food as their masters. It was unheard of.

            “Is there an Asgardian taboo against that or something? Because on Earth leftovers really aren’t a big deal.”

            Loki imagined what would happen in the palace if someone acted so flippantly and he suppressed a shudder. “In Asgard the choicest food goes to the Master of the house, their family, and their guests. For a servant to eat it would be for them to contest their master’s position. Leftovers are fed to the master’s hounds or given to charity.”

            “Well you are rather hound-like.” Stark joked, but Loki just stared back.

            Stark tried another tack instead. “How are you supposed to improve your cooking if you never taste it? Besides I don’t have any family or guests here. And on Earth charities don’t usually accept pre-cooked food. So the options are letting you eat it, which I’m 100% fine with, or throwing it away, which I’m less okay with but I guess if it’s that taboo I won’t fight you about it. I can tell the cooks downstairs to make you something. I didn’t have them send you anything because I kind of figured there’d be food left.”

            Loki was torn between the knowledge that it was wrong for him to eat his master’s food and the truth that said master would honestly rather have him eat it than do anything else with it. And now if Loki didn’t eat it Stark would have to have someone else cook for Loki, making extra, unneeded work.

            He forced himself to calm down. He didn’t like Asgardian traditions. He wasn’t even Aesir. He was on Midgard now and the only thing that mattered was how his Midgardian master saw things.

            He kept his voice tentative, in case Stark changed his opinion. “It is a rather wasteful tradition. If it really won’t offend you I will share your food so that I may better serve you with my cooking.”

            “It takes a lot to offend me, green eyes. Make yourself a delicious fajita. But seriously I need to go sleep for at least an hour. If not until the sun comes up again. G’night.”

            “Good night, master.”

            Stark headed for his bedroom and Loki first cleaned up the kitchen then finally put together a modest fajita for himself, ignoring the sour cream and the onions as items to try at another time. Stark was right, the creation was tasty. Though he thought it might’ve benefited from something acidic. Next time he would ask Jarvis about that. Marinating was clearly a magical process though. The meat was amazingly tender and flavorful. He would remember it going forward.

            He tucked what was left of the leftovers back into the fridge after double-checking with Jarvis that that was the right course of action. Then he leaned against the island for a moment, breathing deeply. He had made dinner and Stark had clearly been pleased. He had perhaps not redeemed himself yet from the hamburger incident, but at least he had proven that he could learn from his mistakes. He was not completely worthless.

            Clearly Stark thought he had done well, to offer him some of the fruit from his labor. Though Stark saw it as unimportant, the symbolism was still there.  He didn’t deserve to break bread at Stark’s table, but he would take food where he could get it and so long as it truly didn’t bother Stark there was no harm in it. He would simply dedicate those meals to making the next meal even better. And perhaps Stark would like his cooking so much he’d be loathe to ever let Loki go.

 

            **The way to a man's heart is through his stomach... Sorry I wrote a whole chapter on fajitas, it just kind of worked out that way? I hope it was enjoyable and short enough not to get boring. I promise that the next chapter will spice things up in a less literal way ;) In fact I'm thinking I'll post a mini chapter very soon, sort of like a teaser trailer? We'll see. Thanks as always for reading and commenting! Imma go make myself some fucking awesome fajitas now!**

 


	14. Surprise!

            **The promised Mini Chapter has arrived! And wow is it a modge-podge rollercoaster. You guys seemed at least vaguely interested in having me post it though and I like evil cliffhangers so we should both be happy now?**

 

            Loki was growing accustomed to life in the tower. After the success of the fajitas Stark began requesting dinner three or four nights a week, which pleased Loki but was also more than a little stressful for him. At first Jarvis continued making recommendations for various meals but then Stark also began putting in specific requests. One of which was for cheeseburgers. Loki panicked for a moment, but he recovered quickly. This time he knew what he was doing. That night he offered Stark four neat patties with perfect grill marks. Stark proclaimed them to taste as good as they looked.

            When Stark dined-in Loki would sit across from him, listening if Stark felt like talking, otherwise waiting quietly for instructions. It was the only time he used Stark’s furniture and he still couldn’t relax into the chair, but both he and Stark ignored that fact.

            The rest of the time Loki rarely saw Stark. He had no idea how the man spent his days, though he imagined him putting down new alien invasions or inventing evermore elaborate suits of armor. He knew he could ask Jarvis what Stark was up to, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to think about the outside world. Because then he would think of how free men spent their time and what he might have been doing, had he his magic and his freedom. And that thinking lead to nothing except his own unhappiness.

            He spent _his_ free time reading through the works of Shakespeare, enjoying the careful phrasing and dramatic plots. Hamlet and Othello both left him feeling unsettled though. Revenge that ended badly was all too familiar.

            He was also sorting section after section of the library, each time having Jarvis double-check his progress. He admitted to having a certain fondness for the voice in the walls now. He still didn’t make a habit of conversing with him often, but when he did he was always impressed with how intelligent the responses were. It was eerily similar to speaking with another person, and almost good enough to replace actual human company.

            Sometimes Loki missed having company. But the truth was he’d never had many close friends and he’d spent a lot of his long life off on his own. Besides, he didn’t really want to see anyone right now, not while he was Stark’s prisoner. Stark’s fairly willing prisoner. He tried not to dwell too much on that.

            The only things that truly plagued him now were his nightmares. He had them almost every night and nothing he did seemed to help.

            He dreamt of his captors. He dreamt of his cell. He dreamt of sweat and blood and pain so real he woke to his own small tortured cries. He dreamt of blue skin and red eyes. Of Frigga’s cold laughter. Of Odin’s detached expression as Loki fell into an endless abyss.

            Even when he had happy dreams they were painful. He and Thor as children, sneaking apples from the garden. His times with Sigyn. His children. The bright and colorful memories only made his heart ache. For all that was lost and never again would be.

            The dream he hated most however, was neither bittersweet nor terrifying. In it he was alone. He floated effortlessly in a nothing space, completely relaxed in the transcendent state that he always reached when weaving his most powerful spells.

            In the dream he called and his magic roared through him. Waves of endless green sang through his veins, pouring from his hands and filling the nothingness with light. He could see all, hear all, feel all. Every branch of Yggdrasil bent before him and he _knew_ he could achieve all that he ever wanted.

            Then he would wake, the calm shattering around him as he scanned the room for captors just in case. And he would throb for hours with the emptiness inside him. Aching for the piece of his being that Odin had sliced away and encased in an iron prison somewhere Loki could never reach. What he would have given for even a spark of green. For just a taste of the power that had once flowed through him.

            He told himself it was pathetic. He had already given away everything he had. Stark commanded him now, his days, his actions. What good would a spark of magic do? It wouldn’t fix his brokenness. It wouldn’t free him from his captivity on Midgard. It would do nothing but remind him even more of what he’d lost. Yet the dream continued to haunt him. And he hated it.

           

            He stopped using the crutches in the fourth week of his time at Stark’s tower. His knee had stopped aching even at night and an experimental walk across his bedroom had proven that he was truly whole once more. He didn’t even have a limp, his norns’ blessed healing abilities having somehow salvaged the shattered thing that his kneecap had been.

            It was an incredible feeling, being without pain and without hunger and without thirst. It was the best he had felt in over two years and he spent the entire day doing far more walking than necessary just to prove to himself that he was whole. His leg was a little weak and shaky but it worked. Stark seemed to notice his unusual enthusiasm (somehow failing to notice at the same time the lack of crutches) and after finally coaxing out the reason for it he insisted on pouring a toast to being healed.

            Loki wasn’t sure it warranted such celebration but he didn’t decline the tiny cup of golden liquid that Stark put in his hand. It tasted like sunshine burning its way down his throat and though the alcohol did nothing to his senses he could have sworn everything felt a little lighter. It might have just been that Stark was grinning at him. “You finally got to take me up on that drink.”

            Loki couldn’t help the surprised chuckle that burst from him and then Stark joined in and he wasn’t sure why it was so funny but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely laughed aloud. It was the best day he’d had in a very long time. He tried to thank Stark for it, but Stark just shook it off and they went their separate ways for bed like usual. The moment lingered in Loki’s mind though. He tried to squelch the hope but he thought it anyway: he might actually steal some happiness here.

 

            The next day was vacuuming day and he was looking forward to testing his healed leg behind the steady hum of the machine. It would most likely be a quiet day. Stark hadn’t requested dinner and that generally meant Loki wouldn’t be seeing him.

            So he was surprised when he heard the elevator ding as he was plugging in the vacuum, about to tackle the plush white sea of carpeting.

            He dropped the cord and swept into his usual bow. “Master Stark.”

            Loki was straightening when he caught a glimpse of the shoes pointing towards him. They had scuffmarks and looked broken in, worn. They weren’t Stark’s.

            He froze for a split-second and then finished straightening, his heart beating faster and faster. It wasn’t Stark. But he did know this man. His veins were turning to ice.

            It was his former thrall.

            Clint Barton.

 

**So who saw that coming?? The answer should be no one because there was no foreshadowing other than that something angsty was coming up and pssh that's in the summary. And now you have some lovely information for your imagination to worry like a dog with a bone. Loki's wonderful luck just keeps on working its magic. Much to my delight. Muhahahaha. (Have I convinced anyone that I'm evil yet?) P.S. This rambling note is why I should post earlier in the day, when I'm more sane. Whoops.**

 


	15. Arrow

           **Man I am really nervous about posting this chapter. I left the cliffhanger longer than I planned because I struggled writing this and idk, I just want it to live up to expectations and I'm not sure that it will? Clint isn't very easy for me to write and I hope I still did justice to the character although I almost want to tag this DarkClint... I just hope you like it, k?**

 

            “What the fuck?” Barton froze, staring at him.

            For a moment there was only silence. Loki couldn’t move. He didn’t know what to do. It was like his brain had short-circuited.

            Barton drew his bow. He leveled an arrow at Loki’s chest. Loki couldn’t even breathe. He remembered being inside this man’s mind. He remembered the deep hatred even the tesseract couldn’t quench, the acid still present even as he bent to Loki’s will. Of all the Midgardians he had wronged, the one who hated him the most was the one now standing armed before him.

            “What did you do to Tony?” Barton growled.

            What did he…? The question wasn’t registering in Loki’s brain. Why did Barton think he’d done something? What was the answer that wouldn’t get him shot? Why did he feel like laughing when he knew that would be the worst possible thing to do?

            Barton took a step towards him. The arrowhead never wavered from its target. Loki’s heart.

            “Answer me. Now. What did you do to Tony Stark?”

            He thought Loki was an invader. An attacker. It suddenly clicked in Loki’s brain as he rebooted. What could he say that wouldn’t get him killed?

            He tried the truth. “Nothing. I haven’t done anything to Tony Stark.”

            Barton’s hand twitched slightly. Loki barely had time to blink.  The arrow shot across the room and sank into his right shoulder. He stumbled back with the impact, white-hot pain coursing through him. Barton must have severed something because his entire arm went limp. He couldn’t feel anything past the hideous burning in his shoulder.

            He stared in wonderment at the blood soaking through his grey t-shirt. Then he realized it had spattered onto the carpet. Shit. Stark was going to kill him.

            Then he snapped back into his head. That statement was wrong. Barton was going to kill him. And he was probably going to take his time doing it, if the arrow now lodged in his shoulder was any indication. Loki couldn’t even blame him. He had imprisoned Barton in his own mind and sent him to sabotage and kill his friends. Worse was the fact that the tesseract allowed him to see what was happening while he was powerless to stop it. Just before Barton’s connection to the tesseract had been severed Loki had felt Barton’s mind retaking his body. The pain and guilt washing through him had been… intense. Loki had no doubt that he was high on Barton’s list of “people I want to torture slowly before killing”. It wasn’t a good place to be.

            Barton came closer now, emboldened by the lack of retaliation. He already had another arrow notched and pointed at Loki’s heart. “Kind of thought you would catch that one. Guess Odin really must’ve taken you down a notch.”

            Loki didn’t dignify that with a response. He wondered what Barton had been told; if he knew that Odin had bound his magic. Did Barton know how weak he truly was?

            “On your knees, scumbag.” The taut arrow waited at Barton’s fingertips.

            Loki lowered himself to his knees, trying not to move his torso. Trying not to listen to the voice in his head that was shrieking madly about the two feet of arrow now jutting from him. The carpet was soft. It made for much easier kneeling than the cement in prison had. Once again he was at the mercy of someone he had wronged. But there was no way Barton would be as merciful as Stark was.

            “Now tell me what you’ve done to him.”

            Loki could feel sweat beading on his brow. He could lie and say he’d done something to Stark, but what good would that do? If Barton recognized a lie he’d kill him for certain.

            Loki could try to pretend he was his former self and bluff with bravado. But he couldn’t even make himself make eye contact with Stark, let alone with someone who he knew hated him.

            He could fight, but there was an arrow through his shoulder, he had no weapons, and if he succeeded in incapacitating Barton he knew that Stark would probably send him back to S.H.I.E.L.D for hurting the man. Barton was Tony’s colleague, if not friend. Loki was just the criminal he used to keep the penthouse clean.

            That left only honesty, a weapon he had rarely wielded. Still he had to do something. Loki tried to make himself sound even more sincere. “I really haven’t done anything to him, I swear it.”

            Barton had closed the gap between them and now he lowered the bow. Loki was surprised until Barton’s hand darted out and twisted the arrow in his shoulder.

            He screamed as the pain ripped through him again, the arrowhead grinding into the bone that had stopped it inside him. More blood gushed out and dripped down the arrow, falling into the carpet white as snow. Loki struggled to focus. His head felt light. Was this really happening?

            “You’re not doing a very convincing job here. How about trying that again?”

            Loki swallowed and kept his head bowed. He could feel the arrow shifting in his flesh as he breathed. “It’s the truth. I’ve been here for several weeks now. I—”

            Barton slapped him across the face so hard that he nearly fell over. His cheek burned and he could feel it turning an angry red. Loki felt himself reverting to what he’d begun thinking of as his “prison brain”. The one that knew there were no right answers. The one that would say anything just to make it stop. He tried to push down the fear. This wasn’t that room. Barton had some kind of conscience. Right?

            “Keep feeding me bullshit. Go on. I’m enjoying this.” Barton grinned at him but it wasn’t a smile.

            “Why do you think I’m wearing a collar?” Loki asked, desperation leaking into his voice. Barton was telling the truth. He was enjoying it. He wanted to hurt Loki. He wanted revenge. And Loki wanted to escape.

            “Don’t try to distract me.” Barton threatened, drawing his bow once more. But Loki could hear a tiny hint of uncertainty in his tone.

            “Stark put this collar on me. I’m his prisoner here and I have been for weeks. That’s the truth. And when Stark gets here, he’ll confirm it.”

            Barton made a skeptical sound. “For all I know you’re a clone and the real Loki is about to stab me through the ribcage.” Barton scanned the area as if checking for a double.

            Loki had forgotten that Barton knew that trick. Barton had learned from their time together. Though Loki had learned more about Barton than vice versa. Loki knew that Barton worked like a machine even without the tesseract’s influence, tirelessly dependable and loyal to a fault. He was also a practical, logical man.

            Loki took a risk.

            “I don’t have my magic anymore.”

            If Barton believed him, Loki doubted that Barton would kill him, not if he wasn’t a threat. Loki turned his hands so Barton could see the runes on his wrists. Though mortals couldn’t exactly read the writing, he knew they could sense the strong binding power they gave off.

            “And even if I were using my gift, you couldn’t hit a double. There would be nothing for you to feel.”

            Barton knew about the doubles. Thus he knew they were just bents of light, no more solid than air. Only tremendous amounts of magic could change that and Loki no longer had the tesseract, which Barton also knew.

            Loki could tell Barton believed him. Unfortunately he couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

            “You’re telling me that Tony has had you in his tower for weeks now and he hasn’t told any of us?”

            “I wouldn’t know what he tells you, but I’m telling you the truth.”

            By the norns his wound ached. Why did he have to feel pain so strongly in this weakened form? He realized he was swaying a little on his knees and he tried to hold himself still. Barton was scanning the room again, as if the truth were written on one of the walls.

            “Wait. Were you… vacuuming?” Barton stared at the vacuum cleaner a few feet away. Barton looked at Loki, swaying weakly on his knees. Loki hadn’t tried to fight. And when Barton had walked in it had looked for a moment like Loki was bowing to him. Everything suddenly clicked into place. “Holy shit. Loki, god of chaos, would-be conqueror of Earth, is Tony Stark’s _maid_?”

            Barton grinned at him and Loki shuddered at the predatory smile. Barton came even closer to him, no longer wary. Loki wanted to be offended except he knew Barton had judged correctly; Loki wasn’t a threat, he was pathetic.

            “So what does that collar do, exactly?”

            He reached out to touch it and Loki flinched. Just slightly, but Barton noticed. Because seeing was what he did.

            Barton’s hand snapped out and he seized the box on the side of Loki’s collar. Loki shrieked as electricity flooded through him but Barton didn’t let go. More and more manmade lightning poured from the collar until he was convulsing, unable to do more than scream as the pain burned its way through his body.

            Then Barton finally let go. Loki collapsed, barely managing to fall on his left side and keep the arrow in his shoulder from digging into the carpet. He gasped for breath as the aftershocks faded, twitching in his fingers and toes. He was covered in sweat and he could feel blood oozing again from around the arrow. He felt like shit and Barton was still here and Barton was like one of his captors and this wasn’t going to end and… he forced himself to shut up.

            But when Barton hovered over him again he couldn’t help flinching. He caught a glimpse of Barton’s expression and it was thoughtful, calculating, as he flexed the hand which had probably suffered some tingling from the electricity, though clearly nothing like what Loki had felt.

            “Nice shock collar.” Barton shook his hand one last time and turned back to Loki. “The only thing I don’t understand here is why S.H.I.E.L.D would let Tony have you. You say you’ve been here for weeks but you’ve been on Earth since the Chitauri invasion. I know they had you in custody two years ago. So why would Tony get you now?”

            Loki didn’t answer. Barton kicked him in the gut and all the breath left his body. He began gasping for air again, feeling a familiar ache spread down his side.

            “I expect an honest answer.”

            Loki couldn’t think of a lie anyway. He was trying not to begin hyperventilating, which was what his body seemed to think would be helpful right now.

            “Master Stark had pity on me.”

            Shit, apparently adding the title had finally become habit.

            “ _Master_ Stark?” Barton stared at him but then he just moved on. “Why the fuck would he feel bad for _you_? You murdered thousands of people. You planned to enslave our entire planet. You tried to kill him and you used this very tower as a home base just to mock him!”

             He couldn’t answer Barton’s question. He had the same one. He didn’t deserve Stark’s mercy and he hadn’t expected it, though he’d clung to the hope it promised. In S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison he’d been getting what he deserved, the punishment he’d earned. He knew Barton saw it that way too.

            But he did know part of why Stark had pity on him. “I was being tortured.”

            “By S.H.I.E.L.D? Bullshit.”

            Of course Barton wouldn’t believe that. Barton couldn’t stand the thought that the organization he was so loyal to would do anything unscrupulous. But Loki didn’t say that. He valued his other limbs.

            “Not S.H.I.E.L.D. Not exactly. They were just allowing ex-Hydra inmates to… work on me.” He remembered Fury’s euphemism. He hated it but he couldn’t describe what had been done to him or he would start hyperventilating for sure.

            Barton eyed him coldly. “Sounds like just desserts to me.”

            Loki closed his eyes and nodded. He tried not to think of the cell. He tried not to let the burning sensation in his stomach expand. He was still in Stark’s care. He would be fine.

            “I can see why Stark would keep you around though. You keep the place clean, make a nice punching bag for letting off a little steam… Although I doubt Tony indulges in that.” Barton threw a fake punch towards Loki’s face and Loki flinched into the carpet. Barton grinned and began circling him.

            “You clearly learned some respect in S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison. I wondered why you didn’t attack me straight off... Although I suppose your lack of mojo is a major downer there. And I have to say, you really don’t shake off arrows the way you used to.” Barton flicked the shaft of the arrow in Loki’s shoulder and Loki bit his lip to keep from yelping.

            Barton stopped to stand over Loki, who remained curled up on the floor. “Stark must think you’re pretty whipped if he lets you wander around his house unsupervised. But I’m not really buying it. So I don’t think I’m going to let you stay here.”

            Loki jerked his head up. Barton had put his bow away and was casually picking at his fingernails. “I’m just gonna have to put in a call to Fury. Tell him I came for a visit and found you running amok. Had to put an arrow in you to get you to stop.”

            The ice was filling his veins again. Loki swallowed. “He’d know you were lying. Jarvis has video recordings of everything on this floor.”

            “Jarvis has been overwritten for the moment. How do you think I got up here? You think Jarvis would let me waltz into Stark’s private penthouse?” Barton gave him a look. “No, Stark’s been acting even shiftier than usual lately and I knew something was up. Not that I would’ve guessed you were involved, but I have to say, I’m thrilled that we could have this little encounter. And when I put in that call it’ll be my word, as an authorized agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., versus yours, pathetic ex-con who tampered with Stark’s security so you could make your escape.”

            Loki tried to find a bluff in Barton’s statement but there was none. Why would Jarvis have let Barton onto this floor? He wouldn’t have. Unless Stark had told him to, but Stark wouldn’t do that. At least Loki had to believe he wouldn’t or he’d start going crazy. And if he believed Stark wouldn’t have allowed it then that meant he had to believe that Barton was telling the truth.

            Loki pulled himself up, still breathing heavily, to kneel at Barton’s feet. “Don’t call him. Please don’t.”

            “You admitted yourself that you don’t deserve to be here. Two years of torture is nothing to an alien like you. You’ve lived what, centuries? Two years is hardly punishment enough for enslaving people’s minds and using them like fucking meat puppets!” Barton snarled.

            Barton was right. Two years should have been nothing even to a mortal, let alone to him. He felt a flicker of shame at how weak he was. How easily he’d broken. But he couldn’t go back to that personal Hell. He couldn’t.

            “I apologize for what I did to you, for what I tried to do to your people. I know what I did was unforgiveable. And I know I deserve to be punished.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “So punish me yourself. I’ll do anything you ask. Just please don’t send me back.”

 

            **This might be another cliffhanger, whoops! Didn't plan it that way but it kind of turned out like one? This is going a slightly different direction than I originally planned but I think it's still good? Idk give me some feedback on if you like where this is headed (I mean obviously it's headed somewhere dark so that's at least consistent right?)! And thanks as always for your soul-warming comments :)**

 


	16. Lines in the Sand

            **I've actually had this written for a while now but I was really debating about posting it. There were so many ways this could've gone and it was so hard to pick just one. I'm still not sure this is the right choice. But this is the one my muse kept returning to and it's the one I have "on paper" so I'm giving it to you and you can let me know what you think.**

 

            He was asking for mercy again. Or not exactly. Barton wasn’t Stark after all.

            And Barton’s reaction wasn’t promising. If anything he seemed amused. “What could I do to you that Hydra agents wouldn’t do better?”

            Loki swallowed. He was going to have to convince Barton to torture him. Which, as plans went, sounded more than a little insane. But Stark had to come home eventually and stalling had saved Loki’s life many times. He just had to think of it that way, stalling Barton. By letting him take whatever sadistic pleasure he chose. But that was beside the point.

            “You’re a master assassin; you’re at least as… capable, as a Hyrdra agent.”

            “Flatterer.” Barton scoffed.

            Loki just finished his thought. “And I know you still want your revenge.”

            He couldn’t bring himself to meet Barton’s gaze but he could feel it on him. Barton did want his revenge, more than he wanted to just lock Loki up again. Even though Loki hadn’t been inside his head in years now, he still knew that.

            Barton finally spoke. “Anything I ask, you’ll do it?”

            Loki nodded, sweat dripping from his nose. Barton had enjoyed hitting him, kicking him. Barton would accept his revenge this way and then Loki would stay with Stark. He didn’t care how much he suffered today. He had earned this punishment, a debt of pain to Barton. As long as Barton didn’t call Fury he would endure without complaint. Stark was merciful; he would give Loki time to heal again. Especially if Loki tried extra hard to be good.

            Loki dared to raise his head a tiny bit, to glance at Barton’s face. Barton smirked at him. “I do like this view. And I didn’t even have to use a tesseract. A few words and just like that you roll over. Rather pathetic.”

            Loki lowered his head, trying not to wonder what form of torture Barton was going to choose. Barton nudged him in the thigh with his foot. “The question is: what do I want to do with such a pretty little broken criminal?”

            Barton pulled an arrow from its sheath and twirled it through the air. Then he brought the point to Loki’s neck, so close that when Loki swallowed he felt the tip of the arrowhead graze his skin. Loki didn’t move and for a moment Barton didn’t either. Perhaps Barton really would just kill him. A cut to the jugular wouldn’t be the fastest death, but nor would it be the most painful. Loki waited for the arrow to slice into his throat.

            But then Barton shook his head. “Too easy. No… Wait.” He clapped his hands and Loki jumped, wincing as the arrow jolted him yet again.

            “What if I told you to suck my dick?”

            Loki felt the blood rise in his cheeks and for a moment he was too surprised to respond. But then he could only nod his assent. He refused to look up and see what he knew would be a vicious smile on Barton’s face. He had promised anything. Now Barton chose humiliation over pain. Or maybe it would become both, once the humiliation ended. Loki had violated Barton’s mind. Now Barton would violate his body.

            He would have felt more shame if Stark had been there, or if Jarvis had been watching. But as it was he only trembled a little as he crawled towards Barton. He had done this before, consensually. He’d been told he was very good at it. There was a reason “Silvertongue” was one of his more popular epithets.  

            Loki knew Barton would try to make this as punishing as it could be. But he also knew he could take it. He swallowed the part of him that felt like it was on fire. The part that screamed about the indignity of this, the part that remembered that he _was_ royalty. Except he wasn’t. He wasn’t a prince anymore, in Asgard or on Midgard. He was a criminal and a prisoner with no channels for redress, who relied entirely on one man’s mercy to keep him from the torturer’s chambers. This was far from the worst thing that could happen to him.

            Barton waited as Loki came to kneel between his feet, carefully moving so the arrow in his shoulder wouldn’t jolt against Barton’s legs.

            Then Barton pulled Loki’s chin up, trying to get eye contact. Loki only stared downwards, as far away as he could look. “I’m going to use you, _Silvertongue_ , for one of the few things you’re still good for.”

            Loki shuddered. Barton let go of Loki’s chin. “And It’d better be good.”

            Barton didn’t move. Loki forced himself to reach upwards with his good arm. Barton swatted his hand away. “Keep your hands down. And if you bite I swear to God I will personally escort you to that prison and torture you myself.”

            Loki nodded and dropped the hand to his thigh. Then Barton’s left hand settled on Loki’s head, fingers snagging in the dark hair that had finally grown long enough to grasp. He slowly pulled the metal zipper down.

            “What the fuck is going on?”

            Barton and Loki both froze. Stark strode into the living room, staring at the two of them. At the arrow in Loki’s shoulder and the blood all over his carpet. At Loki’s kneeling position and Barton’s hand on his zipper.

            Loki bowed his head as a wave of relief crashed over him, along with a flood of embarrassment. Stark clearly hadn’t sanctioned this visit or he wouldn’t have reacted like that. Still, Loki didn’t know what Stark was thinking, if he was displeased about the position Loki was in, or if he was only surprised. What Loki did know was that his blood was drying into Stark’s carpet and he doubted the stains would ever come out.

            “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll clean everything up.”

            He could feel Stark staring at him even though his eyes were on the floor. “I don’t care about the fucking carpet. I can have that replaced. What I want to know is whether this birdbrained asshole here was about to rape you.”

            Loki flinched. “Master—”

            “You’re not the one I want answers from. Because I know _you_ aren’t the reason Jarvis went MIA twenty minutes ago.”

            To Loki’s surprise Barton didn’t even try lying to Stark. Instead he turned away from Loki, to face him. “That wouldn’t have happened if you would’ve just told us what was going on, Tony.”

            “And this is what I knew would happen if I fucking told you! This is an agreement between me and S.H.I.E.L.D, and you don’t have anything to do with it. I know you still hold a grudge against Loki and that’s whatever, understandable, but you know what isn’t? Breaking into your friend’s house so you can beat the shit out of someone staying there and then try to rape them!”

            Loki couldn’t believe the venom in Stark’s tone. Stark was angry about Barton’s treatment of him. Even as Stark acknowledged that Barton had a reason for his grudge. It didn’t make any sense. And apparently it angered Barton as much as it confused Loki.

            “This isn’t some _guest_ Tony! This is a mass murderer who brainwashed me into killing people! And you’re treating him like he’s just some guy you hired to clean your house!”

            “Well excuse me for thinking that torturing someone until they snap so hard they won’t even make eye contact anymore is way out of line for an organization that claims to be about justice! That isn’t justice, that’s cruel and unusual punishment. It’s illegal as hell, and that’s why Fury pushed him onto me in the first place!”

            “I can’t believe you’re defending him.”

            “I can’t believe you’d stoop to _Hydra’s_ level.”

            “Oh because you’re so much better! That shock collar on his neck is topnotch; I’m sure he just _loves_ it.”

            “It’s a fucking security precaution! You were going to rape him!”

            “He _offered_ to do whatever I wanted him to do. Didn’t you?”

            Loki flinched. He had no idea how to answer that. They were both staring at him.

            “I…” Loki stammered. He _had_ offered. But only because of Barton’s threat. But still he had said that, he had given his word and now…

            “You know what? Doesn’t matter.” Stark walked to Loki’s side. “He’s still a prisoner here and I know you figured that out. Which means you know that any consent he did give was given under duress. And that means it wasn’t consent at all.”

            “Oh come _on_ Stark! You have the criminal of the century at your mercy and you’re having him play maid! What happened to _avenging_ the Earth?”

            Stark’s voice got quiet even as Barton’s got louder. “Loki is imprisoned; he can’t hurt anyone anymore. He was tortured for two years straight and he’s never going to be a free man again. Isn’t that enough?”

            “No, Tony, it’s not. He should be in a prison, not in some gorgeous multi-million dollar penthouse!”

            “Yeah? Well some people say the same thing about me.”

            For a moment the silence was deafening. Loki didn’t understand. Why would anyone want the Iron Man in prison after he’d risked his life to save the planet? How could Stark have anything in common with him, a convicted criminal whose crimes were almost too numerous to count?

            Barton tried to respond. “Tony that’s not—”

            Tony’s voice was sharp. “Get out of my tower Barton. And don’t come back to this floor ever again.”

            Loki stared at Stark. Stark was banishing his _friend_. To protect him, Loki, to whom Stark owed nothing. Barton was clearly stunned for a moment. Then he resumed glaring.

            “This isn’t over Stark. I’m going to Fury about this.”

            “Fine. Do that. I told you, he’s the one who set this up in the first place.”

            Barton stormed to the elevators and punched the down arrow so hard Loki was surprised it didn’t shatter. The silver doors closed behind him and in the silence Loki could hear the whir of the elevator moving through the building.

            “Fucking psychopath assassin. Overriding Jarvis’ protocols. Sneaking into my penthouse. Shooting my prisoner.”

            Suddenly his gaze froze on Loki’s shoulder. “Shit, shooting my prisoner! We need to get that out of your shoulder.”

            Loki knew that his body was already trying to heal around the arrow. This was going to hurt. Stark grabbed the arrow and pulled. It came out relatively easily, a testimony to the sharpness of Hawkeye’s weapon. But the movement was accompanied by a wave of pain that made Loki’s vision explode with sparks. More blood gushed onto the carpet. Before Loki could try to apologize Stark shushed him.

            “I should’ve known he’d try snooping around my penthouse some day. Fucking spy. I just didn’t think Jarvis had any vulnerabilities left. Guess it’s upgrade time again.”

            There was a crackling sound and Jarvis’s voice came over the speakers, sounding oddly frayed. “Apol-ogies, sir. I’ve isolated the bug for now. I look forward to that upgrade.”

            Loki was oddly comforted hearing the voice in the walls return.

            Stark stared at the hole in Loki’s shoulder. “I’m going to get the first aid kit, try to get that cleaned up before it closes. Who knows where those arrows have been.”

            Loki remained kneeling on the carpet. He couldn’t quite believe what he’d almost done. What he’d been about to willingly submit too. And yet if Stark demanded it of him… he knew he would comply. It was no different really. He couldn’t go back to that prison. He’d been stupid to think he could be happy here. What little he had could be swept away with one call to Fury, from anyone it seemed, as long as it was only Loki’s word against a true Midgardian citizen’s.

            Stark came back and had Loki peel off his shirt, helping him when it became clear that his right arm wasn’t working correctly. Loki broke out in goosebumps staring at the ugly, angry red hole in his shoulder. Stark poured something on the wound that made it burn like it was on fire and he winced.

            “Sorry, I know it stings, but we don’t want you getting some dumb Earthly infection.”

            Again Loki wondered why Stark cared. If the wound got infected and Loki died, wouldn’t Stark just be free of him?

            Stark was crouching over him and Loki realized he was in almost the same position he’d been in with Barton. He didn’t want to bring it up, he really didn’t. But he’d rather know, so he forced himself to speak.

            “Master wouldn’t you… would you want me to…” His voice came out quiet and shaky.

            Stark stopped pressing the cloth to his wound. “No.”

            Loki swallowed. “I’ve been told that I’m quite good, I could… I know I don’t deserve to be here. I should repay you. I wouldn’t mind.”

            The last statement was a lie, but he knew it was well told. He would do what he had to, to keep Stark happy, to stay in this penthouse, away from Barton, away from S.H.I.E.L.D. And this wouldn’t hurt him, not in a way that mattered more than those he’d already been hurt in.

            Stark’s voice was quiet but deadly sharp. “Loki, I will never ask you to do that. Understand?”

            Loki nodded hesitantly. Stark continued patting at his wound, making it sting again. “Barton was way out of line. I mean I never would’ve thought that he’d… But he doesn’t see straight when it comes to you. Your whole messing with his mind thing really, well, messed with his mind. And now that he knows you’re here he’s not going to just let it go…”

            Loki paled. Barton had banished Jarvis, albeit temporarily, and come into the penthouse with no trouble at all. If he returned and Stark wasn’t nearby…

            “Hey. He’s not going to get back in here. I’m going to make sure of that. I’ll work on Jarvis’ code tonight. And you should be safe in your room either way; it’s on a separate grid and the door is a S.H.I.E.L.D and Stark-tech proprietary blend.”

            Stark sounded completely confident and Loki wasn’t sure if he should be amused by Stark’s cockiness or surprised that Stark cared enough to try and reassure Loki. He didn’t deserve this. Barton was right, Stark was coddling him here and his debt was growing too large to ever be paid. He felt a frantic urge to be useful, to do something for Stark, who was protecting him, who was cleaning his wounds and giving him the kind of reassurances a mother might give a child.

            “You shouldn’t worry about me.” He took a shaky breath. “Barton was right, I earned my place in prison. But you gave me a bed and a shower and books to read and food from your table… Please let me repay you.” He murmured, reaching for Stark’s zipper with his good arm.

            Stark yelped and jumped backwards, stumbling ungracefully towards the wall. Loki looked at him in confusion. Stark rubbed his forehead. “Apparently insanity is catching.”

            He sighed and came back up to Loki again. “Look, I don’t want that, okay? You’re not in your right mind. You’re thinking like Barton and we’ve already established that he’s crazy. S.H.I.E.L.D is paying me to take care of you, the way the government pays for the care of all prisoners. You don’t owe me.”

            Loki was relieved, even as he wanted to protest that he _did_ owe Stark. He owed him everything. He was also surprised to find a slight sting of rejection within the relief. It was the one thing he could really do to repay Stark and Stark wouldn’t have it. But Loki knew that was just Stark protecting him again, treating him like a human instead of an alien prisoner.

            He slumped forward, leaning his forehead against Stark’s shoulder as Stark resumed scrubbing at the blood on his shoulder. “Thank you, master.”

            “Don’t thank me for being a decent human being.” There was something pained in Stark’s voice.

            By the time Stark finished cleaning the wound Loki had nearly fallen asleep kneeling. He didn’t know why he was so tired. It hadn’t even been that much blood.

            Stark had bound a bandage over his entire shoulder and already the feeling was back in his arm, his healing factor kicking in faster than it had in prison, probably due to the fact that he’d been getting proper rest and nutrients.

            “Okay, let’s try standing you up now.” Stark grabbed Loki beneath his uninjured arm and pulled Loki to his feet.

             Loki could feel himself swaying. Why was he so weak? Why did everything suddenly seem so muffled?

             Stark walked him very slowly, in shaky and preplanned steps, to the gleaming white couch. Loki protested as Stark began pushing him down onto the cushions but Stark completely ignored him and it was so soft and Loki’s body was sinking into the couch and just like that everything was gone.

 

           **As promised we got to see some mama bear Tony Stark! Yay! And Loki and Tony had an actual conversation, double yay! But I know this didn't go to nearly as dark a place as it could have. I hope you're not disappointed? Thanks for the wonderful responses to the last chapter, you guys are awesome!**


	17. Fuel to the Fire

            **I'm fighting so hard to keep up on this story through writer's block and generalized anxiety about my life. I have a scene a few chapters out that I can't wait to get to, it's just the hard part of getting there and I don't want anything to feel like filler, but not every chapter can be pulse-racing, climactic wonderfulness, right? Or am I just settling? Sigh...**

 

            “Morning, sleepyhead.”

            Loki blinked groggily. It was so bright. Natural light. Not his room. By Odin’s beard, he was lying on the white couch!

            He flopped immediately from the couch to the ground, resulting in a moan of pain from him and a frustrated sigh from Stark.

            “I’m the one who put you on the couch, you know.”

            “Yes Master. But it’s—”

            “Going to be gone tomorrow. I’m going to have to redo this whole room. White’s impractical anyway, Pepper was the one who chose it.”

            Loki pulled himself into a sitting position with his good arm. His shoulder throbbed but he could already tell the wound was mostly closed. “I’m sorry I ruined your carpet.”

            “Not your fault. Unless you’re telling me you willingly impaled yourself on birdbrain’s arrow?”

            Loki shook his head. Stark grinned. “See, that wasn’t too hard right? And anyway a little bit of blood is far easier to clean up than the mess you made last time you visited my tower.”

            Loki remembered the green beast, the stone floor shattering beneath his back as he was smashed into it as if he weighed nothing. He wasn’t fond of that memory. And that had happened when his healing powers were intact.

            Stark moved into the kitchen and Loki got to his feet and followed, trying to ignore the sudden pounding in his head. He wondered what Stark wanted him to do today. Stark was rarely home during the day and if he was Loki only saw him as he left his bedroom and headed for the elevators.

            “Want a poptart?” Stark pulled a strange silvery packet from a brightly colored cardboard box and ripped into it.

            Loki wasn’t sure if the rectangles he freed from the silver casing were edible or if they were some sort of bizarre cooking utensil. Stark pressed one into his hand. “Try it, you’ll like it.”

            Stark took a generous bite from his, so despite the strange color and hard surface it was clearly considered edible. Loki took a tentative bite. Dry and sugary, with a chemical fruit taste. Not unpleasant, though nothing he would go out of his way to consume. Still, Stark had given it to him so he continued eating it.

            Stark had settled at the dining room table, sitting on the table itself rather than in a chair. “I finished the upgrade for Jarvis. The hole wasn’t big but it’s a good thing Barton found it and not a real baddie. Not that Barton wasn’t bad enough… Anyway, the whole thing got me thinking about stuff you could do.”

            Loki froze. Had Stark changed his mind about Loki repaying him?

            “Hey, not like that. That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about working in the lab.”

            The lab? So Stark needed a test subject. It made sense. Loki still healed much faster than a mortal so there was less risk of him dying if things went badly. Stark was against torture though so it couldn’t be anything too painful. And if Stark saw it as repayment for what Loki owed, even better.

            “My robots are good, but they can’t do everything and honestly I’m running out of things for you to clean up here. Besides, Thor still likes to talk about how clever you are. It’d be a shame to waste a brain like that...”

             He had the odd feeling that Stark wanted his consent to work in the lab. Stark could’ve ordered him, as easily as he ordered Loki to clean the penthouse, but he didn’t. He was offering this to Loki as a choice. And Loki couldn’t claim to enjoy cleaning more than he’d enjoy scientific study, especially if there was a chance he’d be the one studying rather than the one being studied.

             “I would be honored to work in your lab.”

             Stark beamed at him. “Sweet. Kay, I’m going to figure out some stuff for you to do. And how to get you down to the lab, since your elevator won’t work... Anyway, you have the day off; I don’t want you to reopen your shoulder.”

             “Thank you Master.” Loki was surprised again. Stark didn’t even want him to try cleaning his blood out of the floor? He glanced at Stark but Stark seemed completely serious and Loki wasn’t going to argue.

             “The Jarvis’s update is installing as we speak, but I’m not going to stay in the penthouse, so to be on the safe side you might want to stay in your room. With the door closed.”

             Loki tensed.

            “Hey, it’s just a precaution. I don’t really think he’ll come back this soon. But better safe than sorry.”

            Stark was heading for the elevator and Loki followed him over.

            “See you in a bit, Loki.” The silver doors began to close around Stark.

            “Yes, Master.”

            Loki rode the elevator to his floor and tried not to feel on edge as he walked down the silent white hallway.

            Things were going well. Better than he could have hoped. Stark didn’t want to demean him for sexual pleasure. Stark was inviting him to work on actual projects with him. He would be safe from Barton; Stark was going to take care of that too.

            But part of him couldn’t trust in that. Promises were not oaths, no matter how often people compared them. Stark could change his mind about anything at any moment and it would be stupid to get complacent. Barton would try something else, Loki knew it. Because in his mind Loki hadn’t paid for his crimes.

           And sometimes Loki agreed with him.

            He went into his room and shut the heavy door behind him, hearing it seal into place with a faint electronic crackle that Loki knew was Jarvis locking him in. He was still a prisoner here, however much Stark tried to make it feel like indentured servitude. If he tried to leave he knew he’d be reminded of his position very quickly.

            But he hadn’t tried to leave and he had no plans to. Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D were letting him off lightly. If he left he’d be giving Barton the joy of hunting him down and throwing him back where he belonged.

            He lowered himself to the bed and wished he’d thought to ask for a book. The walls felt close and his shoulder ached now that he could feel it again. He could have used the escape.

            It felt rather hot in the room so he lay on top of the covers. But his discomfort didn’t fade. Instead it increased. He started sweating and his muscles felt tight. His head still felt as though it were under some kind of pressure, aching around the temples.

            He tried standing up to stretch and immediately a swirl of dizziness consumed him. He forced himself to stay upright and walk to the bathroom. It felt like it was miles away as waves of heat and nausea crashed over him. He made it to the sink and began gulping down frigid water. It didn’t even touch the inferno raging inside him.

            He hadn’t felt like this since he was a child. Illness was extremely rare among the Aesir and even rarer among those gifted with magic. His magic had been like a shield around him. And now it was lowered in this foreign place and he could hardly stand upright.

            The wound in his shoulder felt like a burning coal, fierce and throbbing. He stumbled back out to the bed and collapsed on it, trying not to feel the room churning around him. He was shivering now and felt as cold as he had on Stark’s rooftop. He pulled the covers up; how he could feel like this when there was sweat upon his brow?

            He refused to call to Jarvis. He didn’t want to admit that he was frightened by what he imagined was a commonplace reaction for mortals when they got shot. He knew what a fever was, his body trying to scald out whatever ailed him. He would let it do its work and he would be ready to work in Stark’s lab tomorrow.

            Dinner's arrival was marked by a hiss from the tube but he didn’t stir. Sleep was pulling at him even as he had to roll over to his side trying to ease the pain in his shoulder. He let the darkness take him, hoping that when he next woke the sickness would be over.

 

 

            His vision was saturated with red, at least in the little light that remained amidst the encroaching darkness. There were monsters in the shadows around him. He knew they were there but he couldn’t move as they circled him, claws clicking on stone. Sweat poured from him but he couldn’t run anymore. Barton appeared in the distance, smirking. _I told you, Loki, this is how it’s supposed to be. This is what you were made for._

            The shadows surged and he screamed but it didn’t matter. They were tearing into his limbs, clawing flesh from bone, waves of hot blood pouring over him as he struggled weakly. He felt his fingers breaking one by one. He felt them gouge his eyes from his skull. They played with his limp limbs, lapping up his blood as he lay there, broken.

            He heard Barton laughing and the sound of his bow pulling taut just before a new pain blossomed in his shoulder. He begged Barton to let him die. But the man just kept laughing. And the pain in his arm was growing, spreading, until it consumed like fire, burning everything around him into ash.

 

 

            One of the monsters came back. It lapped at his blood again and the sound made him want to vomit but there was nothing in him. He was blind but he could feel its breath on his face, hot with the rank smell of rotting flesh.

             It padded to his shoulder and pawed at his limb, for a moment gently. Then it sank its claws into the wound and he howled despite himself. It wouldn’t let go and he could feel the blood gushing out and it burned like nothing he’d ever felt before until he was gone again.

 

 

               He could feel something nudging his lips. Something smooth. It smelled like water but bitter. He didn’t want to drink. But then there was a far off rumble, like thunder. Thor had found him, again. Why did Thor always find him when he was like this, pitiful and weak?

               He let his lips fall open, let his brother pour cool liquid down his throat. It felt better, he had to admit that. He thought Thor would lift him then, bring him to Frigga. Or at least wipe the bloody tears from the gaping holes in his skull. But the rumble faded and he was alone again and that hurt almost more than his shivering, shredded body. The monsters were still out there. Maybe Thor didn’t know that. Or maybe he did.

 

 

               His head felt like it was full of bees. One of the monsters dragged a claw across his arm and then dug in there, deep, so deep the claw snapped off and the monster growled at him when he tried to move away.

               The monsters wouldn’t leave him alone, though he begged them to. They kept coming back and lapping at his skin with rough tongues. It didn’t hurt much but it made the goosebumps come back and then his arms and legs cramped even though they could hardly move. He didn’t understand why he was still alive.

               His mouth felt like the inside of a tomb. He wished Thor would come back. He hadn’t wished that in a very long time.

 

              **I wanted to change the font to give the fever dreams a different vibe but it didn't paste in and idk about skins so I guess we'll all have to do without. I hope you liked it! Keep sending me your lovely comments and theories! Reading them seriously makes my day :)**

 


	18. Repairs

           **This is a weird little chapter that just kind of came out when I sat down to type, so I rolled with it. I know I'm hitting another kind of trope in the MCU fandom but it's one that I like a lot so... sorry, not sorry!**

 

            He needed to urinate. The urge was pulling him from the darkness. He’d thought he was awake. He’d thought he was dying in the shadow realm, though he couldn’t remember why or how, only the sound of Barton’s cruel laughter. But if that had been reality then why would needing to piss feel like waking up?

            He tried moving his right arm and the immediate stabbing pain from his shoulder stopped him. If anything the wound felt worse than it had in the moment it was inflicted. He had to wait several seconds before he tried moving the left. It shifted weakly in response, but it didn’t hurt.

            That was enough. He was alive. He was a little afraid to open his eyes but he made himself peel his eyelids back. In the blurry brightness he found himself lying in a bed. He blinked and his vision cleared, though his eyes felt hot and dry. He recognized Stark’s ICU. There was a cord sticking out of his injured arm, the same thing Stark had had in him when he’d arrived in the ICU the first time. An IV?

            Instead of flopping to the ground and injuring himself, this time he reached over and pulled it gently from his arm. Immediately something mechanical started shrieking and he flinched back into the mattress.

            The door flew open. It wasn’t Stark.

            It was a man with tousled dark hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched above the somewhat irritated twist of his mouth.

            It was the monster who had broken his spine against Tony Stark’s floor.

            Loki pissed himself.

            The man looked surprised at seeing Loki awake and his expression immediately smoothed over. “Hey, it’s okay.”

            Loki was shivering and he couldn’t stop. His brain felt like it had been dunked in an ice bath. “Please don’t…” He whispered. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. Please don’t kill me? Please don’t unleash the terrible rage inside you?

            The man came up to him with the strangest look on his face. Loki would have called it concern if that wasn’t ludicrous. He reached out and Loki waited for the hand to close around his throat but he just did something to the IV. The noise stopped and the liquid that had been dripping out of the IV stopped flowing.

             Then the man just looked at him for a minute. “Do you need something…?” He caught sight of the dark spot spreading on the sheet and looked oddly apologetic. “Sorry, I should’ve grabbed Tony… Just didn’t think you’d come out of it yet. Your immune system must be incredible. Should’ve figured, I mean, Thor doesn’t even seem to know what sickness is.”

            He couldn’t help flinching slightly at Thor’s name. Did Thor know he was here? Had Thor really visited him? He didn’t know what he should do. The man’s voice was calm, even soothing, but Loki knew what lived inside him. And he was terrified of it. In his current state he would crumple like paper beneath that beast.

            “Thor, uh, doesn’t know you’re here. No one is supposed to. Although of course Barton found out.” Loki was surprised when the man shook his head. “I can’t believe he… I’m sorry for what he did. I thought he was better than that. And I can’t even call him out because you’re still supposed to be a secret.”

            The man was giving him a tight smile and Loki was confused although he felt a lot less endangered than he had originally. “Tony’s terrible at keeping secrets. He told the entire world he was Iron Man instead of even attempting to keep it a secret. I hope Fury has something in place because there’s no way Tony is going to be able to keep you hidden here forever.”

            Just like that Loki’s heart sank again. Was that a threat? This man was more powerful than Barton and less predictable. If Loki didn’t tread lightly he would die an ignoble death, tangled in soiled sheets and dressed in an invalid’s robes. Or he’d face once more an eternity of empty black masks and cold cement rooms coated in his blood.

            “Please don’t call Fury. I’ll do anything you ask. I can give you great pleasure…” A look of revulsion crossed the man’s face and Loki switched tactics, “Or you can punish me however you see fit. As you’ve seen, I heal quickly, Stark need never know.”

            Now the man looked like _he_ was in pain. He took several deep breaths, as if trying to calm himself, and Loki froze. Had that lured the beast to the surface? How had that angered him?

            For several moments neither of them moved. Loki didn’t know what was going and his head was still pounding and part of him just wanted to be unconscious again but that wasn’t going to happen when his heart was beating like a rabbit’s.

            Slowly a look of calm descended over the man and he opened clear brown eyes, a flash of green vanishing even as Loki watched.

           “I know we were never properly introduced. So let’s start over. I’m Doctor Bruce Banner. I’m the one who picked up the phone at 2 a.m two nights ago to Tony Stark freaking out on the other end, telling me I had to get on a flight to New York immediately because a “friend” of his was possibly dying and for some reason no normal hospital would treat him.”

            If the Doctor’s tone hadn’t been so sincere Loki would have dismissed that story outright, especially the idea of Tony “freaking out”, but the man just continued speaking.

            “I’m the one who landed in Tony’s private hanger four hours later and was whisked here before I could even ask where we were going. I’m the one who lanced and drained the abscess around the arrow splinter in your shoulder and put in the IV with a course of antibiotics that may have saved your life.”

            Another debt Loki now owed. He wondered if the Doctor would now tell him what he wanted in payment. He clearly wasn’t done speaking yet, though he took a moment and seemed to calm himself even further.

            Banner sighed. “And I’m the one who wants you to know that I’m not angry about doing any of that. I was helping a friend. I also happen to have a lot of experience with doing destructive things that lead to regrets. I don’t know how much of a conscience you have, but from what Stark says there’s at least a little remorse in you and even if there’s not, S.H.I.E.L.D put you through Hell and that’s something else I’m too familiar with. I’m not Barton and I’m not S.H.I.E.L.D and all I want from you is for you to finish healing so Tony will stop hassling me about your progress.”

            Loki stared at Banner, reevaluating the tired man. The man who had a monster trapped inside him and had to live with the knowledge that it might break free and wreak havoc if he ever let his guard down too long. A man who clearly felt guilty about the destruction he caused, even though he had the greatest excuse for causing it. A man who had learned how to heal others, in spite of, or perhaps because of his own aptitude for hurting them.

            He owed Banner his life now, or at least several days of recovery time. Yet Banner claimed he didn’t want anything from Loki and Loki believed him.

            That didn’t mean he could bring himself to entirely relax. After all, the man was a bit of a disaster waiting to happen. But he could at least make himself look less terrified.

            “Thank you, Doctor Banner. I’m indebted.” He bowed his head towards the Doctor.

            “You’re welcome. And you can call me Bruce.”

            Loki blinked. No title? Not even Doctor, a title which, if he remembered correctly from Doctor Selvig’s ramblings, had to be earned?

            “Are you feeling well enough to get up now?”

            There was genuine concern in Bruce’s voice and Loki felt strange hearing it. He had fought this man. He’d tried to use him as a weapon against his own friends. But the compassion was not false.

            “I can get up.” Nevermind that he thought he might fall over again in a few minutes…

            Bruce rolled his eyes. “You’re as bad a patient as Tony. I meant do you think you can stand up and get into fresh clothes while I change the sheets. I’m not asking you to put on a brave face and get back to work.”

            Loki nodded, sheepishly, and Bruce pulled back the sheet. “There’re some clothes on the chair. I’ll change these while you get dressed.”

            Loki sat up and took a moment to let the blood settle in his head before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. When he stood a wave of dizziness hit him but it passed and he made it to the chair with only a few wobbles.

            He was back in the same kind of gown Stark had had him in when he’d first arrived and it slipped over his head easily, even with one bad arm. It was more difficult when it came to putting on everything else, especially the shirt, despite the fact that everything was made of stretchy cotton. He could tell that Bruce had done a far better job bandaging his shoulder than Tony had. It felt snug but not too tight and it kept him from moving it enough to make it hurt.

            Bruce had already expertly stripped the bed and redone it in the time it’d taken him to wrestle into the clothing. Loki felt a little silly climbing back into bed fully clothed, but Bruce hadn’t even commented on the fact that he’d wet himself, let alone mocked him for being weak or pathetic. Still, even standing up for that long had made him tired again and he could feel his hands shaking.

            “I’m going to bring you some broth and water and then I’ll let you go back to sleep, okay?”

            Loki nodded as Bruce left and it felt very foreign, being taken care of. Lying in bed as someone brought him everything he needed. It almost made up for feeling hot and nauseous.

            Bruce came back with a pale yellow broth that had small orange and green bits in it. It tasted salty and good and it was easy to sip even with his stomach feeling off. There was a pill to take with the water, which Bruce explained was just an antibiotic, since he was off the IV now.

           Part of his brain was still suspicious. How did he know any of what Banner had said was true? How did he know he hadn’t been poisoned and kidnapped and now this was the start of some new horror? He glanced up at Banner’s face. The amount of concern it radiated would be very difficult to fake. Besides, if he’d been kidnapped things were going relatively well so far and denying himself sustenance wouldn’t make anything better.

            He finished the delicious broth and the water and then lay back against the pillow. “Bruce?” He asked softly.

            “Yes, Loki?”

            “I’m sorry that I attempted to use you as a weapon.” And if this was what Bruce was like, if this wasn’t some Hydra/S.H.I.E.L.D trick, he truly was.

            Bruce quirked a strange smile at him. “You’re not the first person to try. You probably won’t be the last.”

            “That doesn’t make it right.” Of course he hadn’t known anything about Bruce then, had only been thinking tactically, but it was still a horrific thing to do to a person. To turn them on their friends knowing there was nothing they could do to stop themselves… “If I had my magic… there might be a cure for you.”

            He betted it would be possible to separate Bruce from the creature inside him. You could pull different aspects of people out with magic, could transfer spirits between bodies. He wondered what he’d have seen, had he looked at Bruce with his magic.

            Bruce smiled again but it was a tight smile. “I’ve tried cures, Loki, and most of the time I regret trying them. I’ve learned that it’s better to just move on.”

            Loki wondered what he’d tried. He wanted to argue that magic would be different but he had no way of proving anything so he let it drop. Bruce gathered up the dishes on a tray and prepared to leave.

            Loki felt heavy with sleep already but he murmured anyway, “Thank you, Bruce.”

            “Sleep well, Loki.”

 

 

            The next time he opened his eyes Stark was sitting by his bedside. He didn’t know Loki was awake and Loki took a moment to look at him unobserved. He was surprised by the shadows under Stark’s eyes, the slouch of his shoulders. He looked like he’d been carrying something heavy, something that was dragging him down to exhaustion. Loki wondered what it was. Then Loki wondered why he cared. But he didn’t want to go into that labyrinth. Stark was his jailer and that was all.

            Loki shifted, alerting Stark to his conscious presence, and it was almost like magic seeing the shoulders straighten and his eyes brighten, the weight seemingly vanishing.

            “Hey. How are you feeling?”

            Loki took stock and found that the answer was weak, but much better. The ache in his shoulder was fading quickly now and he would bet that the wound was almost closed. Mostly he was just drained, a faint throbbing behind his temples telling him of the strain his body was taking as it mended.

            “I’m no longer ill.” He wasn’t going to bore Stark with the details.

            Stark narrowed his eyes at him. “I expect you to answer me honestly when I ask you a question.”

            Any softness in Stark’s tone had vanished and Loki paled. “Yes, Master. I’m… tired. But my shoulder feels nearly healed and the fever is gone. I could return to my duties.”

            Just like that Stark’s expression changed to a small smirk. “See, that wasn’t hard was it?”

            Loki answered hesitantly. “No, Master.”

            “I really am glad you’re feeling better.” Stark smiled at him almost gently. But then he moved right on to the next thing. “Especially since I’ve figured out how to get you to the lab. There’s this marvelous invention called a staircase, built in case of power failure or fires or something!” Stark grinned at him and Loki had to smile at his mania, at the absurdity of stairs being the miracle of technology, rather than the whirring silver boxes that had made them obsolete.

           “So I’m putting new parameters on the collar for that. You’ll be able to walk back and forth between the floors while I’m down there.”

            New parameters? Loki wondered what the old ones had been. He was glad he hadn’t tested them. Barton’s little experiment with the collar had been more than enough for him.

            He wondered if Stark wanted him in the lab today. The idea of stairs made his headache pound harder behind his eyes. Stark continued babbling but Loki had no idea what any of the technical terms he was using alluded to so it mostly poured past him.

            Finally Stark stopped and looked at Loki critically. “Bruce says to give you another day or two. You do look pretty pale. And you’ve lost some of the weight you were putting on. So I’m  going to listen to the guy with the medical doctorate. I’ll just have to table a few projects until you’re ready.”

            If Bruce hadn’t said that, would Stark have taken him to the lab today? He’d thought Stark was offering to be colleagues, working together in Stark’s lab. But it sounded as if Stark saw Loki more like a piece of malfunctioning equipment that he was impatiently waiting to have fixed.

            Stark turned to leave and then paused. “Oh, I did bring you something, to keep your brain busy while you’re recovering.”

            He’d been holding the book in his hands the entire time. Loki had figured he was reading it while waiting for Loki to wake. But it was a large volume entitled “An Introduction to Basic Mechanics”. Stark was far beyond needing such a manual.

            Loki managed a small smile. “Thank you, Master.”

            Stark nodded and strode out of the room. Loki felt the heft of the book. He didn’t particularly enjoy reading manuals. He valued book learning and knew formulas and spells were best read through first, but with both magic and mechanics he learned best by doing, replicating.

            It didn’t matter if he wasn’t enthused about the assignment he’d been given though. Stark needed his equipment to be in working order when he wanted it in the lab. So Loki opened to the introduction to learn all he could by the time Stark called on him once more.

 

           **Just so we're clear, Tony is not trying to be a jerk in this chapter, Loki is just more sensitive than Tony thinks he is. Also Tony isn't in the next couple scenes very much but that's not him trying to be a jerk either, he's just also maintaining a life in the background of this fic!**

**I really hope you like my Bruce. He doesn't have a ton of lines in the MCU and he's a little harder to pin down than some of the other characters but I think he's a very caring and intelligent person. Also, I meant for the fic to get a little lighter from here but honestly what I have written after this is plunging back into the darkness, so um, buckle up for that...**

 


	19. The Power of Words

            **A short chapter! Everyone's favorite thing, right? :P In my defense life is full of medical issues, graduations, and car problems all of which are very inconvenient when it comes to setting aside time to write. Yet somehow I've posted over 75 pages of this story... it's even broken 300 kudos! Which is more than I ever expected. So thanks for that, you awesome readers out there! :)**

 

            Loki was fairly sure he wasn’t meant to hear Stark and Bruce talking in the hall outside his room. His healing capabilities may have been diminished but his sight and hearing hadn’t changed, and the mortals weren’t necessarily aware that he could hear down hallways and around corners far better than they could.

            He normally didn’t eavesdrop anyway; much of what the mortals discussed was meaningless to him. But when he heard the edge in Bruce’s tone he started listening closely.

            “ _Master_? You’re having him call you _master_?”

            “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

            “You’re already his jailer Tony, you don’t have to rub that in his face every time you exchange words.”

            “Hey he has a proven track record of being a slower learner.”

            “Oh so I’m sure it has nothing to do with you liking the way it sounds.”

            “What, am I supposed to just let him call me Tony, be all buddy buddy with him like you? If he fucks anything up it’s my ass on the line, Bruce. So his ass needs to stay in line.”

            “I understand the sentiment, but it’s not necessary. Have you looked at him lately?”

            “He’s fine. He doesn’t need to be babied. Especially since you’re making him all better.”

            Loki could just make out the sound of Bruce’s skeptical snort. “I don’t think anything could make him all better. Not anymore.”

            There was a beat of silence and Loki wished he could see Stark’s face. “Yeah well, he keeps getting up in the morning and that’s what counts.”

            “You’re not going to stop making him call you that, are you?”

            “Nope. Good effort though buddy, really went for it.”

            Bruce sighed and Loki could hear them walking away, voices fading. “You could at least be…”

            Loki ran his fingers across the smooth white paper, the black blotches of ink that he could just barely feel. For some reason his heart was aching in his chest. For some reason his eyes felt on the verge of watering. For a moment he imagined what his life would be like if Bruce had been put in charge of him.

            But Bruce didn’t have the security. In fact S.H.I.E.L.D didn’t even trust him with his own body. He forced himself to scrub the thoughts away. Bruce couldn’t help him. It was better to focus on keeping his current jailer happy. So he made himself stare at the page until slowly the ink splotches turned back into words.

 

 

            Stark didn’t visit Loki in the ICU again. Instead Bruce was the one who came to deliver trays, force Loki to walk around the room, even give him pain pills for the headaches he somehow knew Loki was having. Bruce didn’t attempt any lengthy conversations, but he did everything with gentle and firm care.

            By day two Loki was feeling much better. At dinner that night, which had progressed back to completely solid foods, Bruce finally brought up something other than Loki’s physical health.

            “Fury’s going to come check on you.”

            Loki choked on the mashed potatoes he’d just put in his mouth and spent several seconds trying to cough them out of his lungs. He could tell he’d gone pale again and his hands were shaking.

            Bruce looked deeply apologetic. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought you might want to know. Tony said he’s going to be here tomorrow.”

            Loki forced himself to breathe.

            Bruce’s tone turned soothing. “It’s not a test, he just wants to see the facilities, make sure everything is going well…”

            “And if it’s not?” Loki’s voice came out faint and high.

            Bruce waved the question away. “I don’t see him having any issues with the set up. Stark has you wearing that collar, your room is heavily secured, and Jarvis has eyes on you 24/7. What else could he want?”

            “What about Barton?” He’d gotten to Loki with relative ease. Sure Loki himself hadn’t tested the defenses, but if someone could get in didn’t that mean there was a problem?

            “I don’t know if Fury knows about Barton or not. If he does than Stark can tell him that he’s upgraded security since then. And either way it had nothing to do with you.”

            Loki nodded, but his stomach felt like it had filled with lead.

            “Hey. You’ll be fine. I mean, come on, you’re a model prisoner!” The words were meant to sound light but Bruce’s delivery was tinged with something like sadness.

            The words weren’t comforting anyway; they were just a sign of how broken he was. He _was_ a model prisoner. He was trapped here and he didn’t even try to escape. He should have done something by now but he’d spent his time making fajitas and reading Midgardian novels. And if Fury chose, he’d be returned to his previous prison tomorrow, without having even tried to get away.

            Bruce sighed. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

            Loki immediately shook his head. “No, I’m glad you warned me. Thank you, Bruce.”

            “You’re welcome. Are you going to finish that?”

            “I’ve… lost my appetite.”

            Bruce looked apologetic again as he picked up the tray.

            “I’m going to put this away and then we’re going to move you back to your room. There’s no reason for you to stay in the ICU anymore.”

            It was strange walking back to his room. He’d been getting used to the empty white of the ICU. Nothing hurt as he walked. Even his headache was gone and his shoulder was as smooth as if it’d never been pierced.

            Bruce opened the door for him and the room was exactly as he’d left it. He realized, seeing it with fresh eyes, that there were no personal touches, nothing that made it really his. It was as much a prison cell as the room he’d left at S.H.I.E.L.D.

            He set the book that Stark had given him on top of the dresser. He turned back and Bruce was standing in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck.

            “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

            Bruce nodded, looking almost guilty. “Yeah. You’re in good health now and being in the tower is kind of stressful. I’m not a fan of enclosed spaces. Or cities.”

            Loki was surprised to realize that he would actually miss Bruce. Bruce had spent time with him. Had taken care of him. Had genuinely understood how Loki felt, even if they didn’t really talk about it.

            But Bruce had no obligation to him and Loki might not even be in the tower after tomorrow. “I wish you safe travels. Thank you, for everything.”

            “Any time. Good luck tomorrow, Loki.”

            Loki nodded. Then Bruce slipped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

            Loki sat slowly on the bed. He had finished the book Stark had given him. He’d had a fair understanding of mechanics before, at least Asgardian ones, and now he was familiar with basic Midgardian technology too. He was ready for Stark’s lab but he doubted he’d be going to it tomorrow, not with Fury’s visit planned.

            As if on cue, Jarvis’s voice issued from the ceiling. “I will be waking you tomorrow. There will be a list of tasks as per usual.”

            Loki nodded. “Should I do anything differently?”

            “That won’t be necessary. Fury is aware of the routine.”

            He nodded again and decided he might as well get ready for bed. There was no time to try forming an escape plan, not with the number of technological failsafes he’d have to overcome. At least he’d face Fury on a good night’s sleep.

            As he brushed his teeth he could feel his prison brain roiling just under the surface. He wasn’t going to take any chances. He would greet Fury on his knees, the perfect, subdued prisoner. He hated the image of himself that that conjured. Weak, spineless, pathetic.

            But his prison brain found it soothing. He’d been pretending that he was human, that Stark might want to treat him like an equal. But he was an alien and a convicted criminal and anything but an equal. He would return to the way he should have been behaving all along. It would be better that way. No one could take offense at him then. And he would get to stay where he was, pain free, if not happy, in Stark’s tower.

 

**If I were a kinder author Bruce would smuggle Loki away in the night and they'd go work in some free clinic in South America giving health care to impoverished children and drinking tea and practicing meditation together. But I'm not kind or this story wouldn't exist. So Loki continues to have to put up with a self-centered Stark and a frightening Fury (look at that alliteration!). If anyone wants to write that alternate ending though, feel free to do it, I'd love to read it!**


	20. Inspector Fury

            **Do-duh-do-duh-do Inspector Fury! Man I didn't even watch Inspector Gadget as a kid. The title of this chapter still makes me happy though. Not that this is a happy chapter. Not that that's what you're reading for anyway... It's been too long. I missed you guys! I hope you're all doing well! And I hope you enjoy this new chapter!**

 

            His hands shook as he pulled a dark pair of jeans and a plain gray shirt from the dresser. He made himself take a deep breath. The shaking subsided slightly but didn’t cease. He resisted the urge to collapse to the floor and press his forehead to the ground and try to forget his existence. It wouldn’t work. It might even look like rebellion.

            After he brushed his teeth he stared at himself in the small square of glass. He had slept well, by his standards, which meant only one minor nightmare. He looked pale but there were no shadows under his eyes. His hair had grown out a bit and it made him look more familiar to himself. More the way he used to look. But the haircut was still crooked and patchy, clearly done without care. Maybe that was a good thing. It made him look like the humble prisoner he was.

            He managed to eat a few bites of oatmeal and drink the glass of milk that came with it, but that was all he could stomach. Even that churned within him, making him wonder if he’d regret eating it.

            Jarvis’ list for him was surprisingly long. He wondered if it meant Stark hadn’t hired anyone to clean in Loki’s absence. It made sense. Why hire someone when you’re caring for a prisoner that can do it for free?

            He went about his chores, wondering when he’d be interrupted. When Fury (and possibly Stark?) would burst in. He didn’t have any kind of time table. So he lost himself in the repetitive motions, seeking perfection as he swept and mopped and dusted.

            The carpet and the couch in the living room had been replaced while he was in the ICU. The furniture had switched from white to black and the carpet was still plush but it was now gold, the color so convincing it glittered, metallic in the light. It made the room seem warmer, less sterile. An upgrade.

            Lunch arrived and still no one had interrupted him. He was hungry but his stomach felt like it was full of acid. He forced himself to eat an apple and most of the sandwich that arrived on the tray. He missed Bruce’s quiet presence beside him while he ate. Tony only ate dinner with him occasionally, and even then it was only Tony who ate; they didn’t actually share a meal together.

            He started window washing after lunch, staring out at the city he’d tried to destroy. It was a chaotic jumble of brick and concrete and steel. Not at all like the orderly gold columns of Asgard’s capitol. But each building here was unique, the city growing sporadically, organically over time. There was something beautiful in the messiness of it.

            “Nice view, huh?”

            Loki leapt at the sound of Fury’s voice, then immediately spun and dropped to his knees still clutching the rag he’d been using to wipe the windows. His heart pounded in his chest and he knew he’d bruised his legs falling so heavily onto the tile floor.

            “You don’t agree?” Fury sounded amused. Probably at the fact that he’d made Loki jump.

            Loki also knew that Fury expected to be answered. “It’s… a great vantage point, Director, sir.”

            He stumbled over Fury’s title. What was he supposed to call him? Would Fury take offense? He kept his head bowed, his hands behind his back, clutching the rag so tightly his fingers ached. At least he wasn’t shaking. The terror had overwhelmed him to a point of artificial calm.

            “Director is fine.” Fury took a few steps closer and Loki wondered how he hadn’t heard the sharp footfalls of his boots against the tile.

            “The windows look good.” Fury reached out and touched the glass, leaving a single fingerprint. One touch ruined a pane Loki had already wiped clean. He supposed that was the point. Whatever Loki did would be futile if Fury chose to change things.

            “Thank you, Director.” Politeness. Thank them and they’ll be more forgiving. That was one theory anyway.

            “The entire place looks good, actually. I’m impressed. Maybe I should bring you over to my apartment sometime.”

            “I would be happy to clean for you, Director.” Loki was surprised at how sincere those words sounded. His silvertongue still functioned sometimes then. Because the idea of being alone in an apartment with Fury was actually terrifying.

            “I don’t give a damn about your happiness. Let’s be clear on that upfront.”

            Loki froze. Apparently the niceties were over.

            “What I’m here to assess is whether Stark is keeping you under control.”

            Fury pulled something small and black from his pocket. “This is supposed to work on that collar around your neck.”

            There was no further warning. Electricity pulsed through him, almost gently at first and then there was more and more until he couldn’t hold himself to a kneel and was instead collapsing on the floor, clenching his jaw to keep quiet as sparks burned through his nerves.

            He kept thinking Fury was going to let up and several times it felt as if the electricity was fading, but then it would spike again. His limbs thrashed weakly with it, generating more bruises on the tile, and he dimly realized he’d kicked over the bucket he’d been using to wash windows and the liquid was soaking into his pants, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think past the screaming of the nerves inside him.

            Finally Fury shut it off. Loki lay on the floor panting, covered in sweat, still twitching sporadically. He was glad he used the restroom at lunch because he’d surely have lost control of his bladder if there’d been anything in it.

            Fury nudged him with his boot. “Seems effective.” His finger went back to the black thing and Loki braced himself. Fury laughed and slid it back into his pocket.

            “I’m ready to see your cell now.”

            “Yes, Director.” Loki forced himself to his feet, ignoring the tremble that threatened his knees, the one that shook its way out through his fingers, making them click like branches in a strong wind.

            He kept his head low, shoulders hunched. Fury followed him to his elevator.

            “You have your own elevator?” Fury seemed skeptical.

            “It’s the only way to access my floor.” Loki wondered if Fury believed him.

            Fury reached out and pressed a button for another level, noting the hollow click.

            They reached Loki’s room and Fury spent several minutes just examining the door. Loki stared at the floor, hoping the containment system met Fury’s criteria.

            Then Fury entered the room and Loki slunk in after him. Fury let out a low whistle. “This is a nice cell.”

            For some reason the statement felt like a threat.

            “Master Stark is very generous.”

            He remembered the wonder he’d felt at having his own dresser, with clothes to actually choose from. The feeling had faded somewhat now, but a hint of it was still there.

            “Too generous.” Fury yanked open dresser drawers and started pawing through the clothes. Apparently he didn’t find whatever he was looking for because the next minute he was stalking into Loki’s bathroom, tapping the walls, eyeing the pipes. Then he came to the hole in the wall and made Loki explain it several times, looking at him with heavy suspicion.

            Finally he gave his verdict. “The room’s plenty secure. But it’s also full of potential weapons. A fact which I have no doubt you’re well aware of. Yet somehow I don’t think you’ve brought that to Stark’s attention, have you?”

            A shiver ran down Loki’s spine. He remembered his initial scan of this room. He forced himself to shake his head. But why would he have told Stark that? Was he to be complicit in his own imprisonment?

            “Not surprised. Although you’d think Jarvis would take a little more initiative in protecting his master. I guess an algorithm can only go so far.”

            “I do my best, sir.” Loki was surprised at how close to hostile the mild British voice sounded, speaking up for the first time since Fury had arrived.

            “Sure you do. But that’s why I’m here. To double-check.” Loki could feel Fury’s one eye boring into him. “Strip the bed.”

            Loki moved to the bed and pulled the blanket, the sheets, and the pillow from it. He folded everything and laid it in a neat pile on the floor. The bed seemed to shrink, laid bare before them.

            “Now the dresser...”

            Fury had him carry the dresser and all of the clothes into the hall, along with the bedding. Because he might sharpen a piece of the dresser into a knife. Because he might tie clothing together and try to strangle Stark. Because he was still deep down a violent, unpredictable criminal.

            Fury surveyed the room, which now looked even barer than it had looked to Loki when he’d returned from the ICU. “Better. Cleaner line of sight for Jarvis. The dresser stays in the hallway. You can get your clothes in the morning when the door unlocks. The mattress stays the way it is now, understood?”

            Loki nodded. It was still better than his cell in S.H.I.E.L.D’s facility. The crushed dirty mattress lying on cement. He was still lucky, even if it didn’t feel like he was.

            “You need a shave.”

            Loki’s stomach dropped. His hair was finally starting to look more _his_ again. But he just nodded again, keeping his face blank. Prisoners didn’t have opinions.

            Fury led him back up the elevator and rummaged in Stark’s bathroom before emerging with an electric shaver. He had Loki spread a garbage bag on the kitchen floor. Loki knelt on the cold plastic. Fury sat behind him on a kitchen chair.

            The razor whirred to life in his hand and Loki tried not to jump but he didn’t quite succeed. Fury wasn’t one of his captors though. He didn’t smack Loki for jumping. He kept the razor from biting into Loki’s skin. He didn’t yank Loki’s head from side to side or press the blades dangerously close to his throat. His hand was smooth and steady. But that didn’t stop Loki from feeling the barrenness of his shorn scalp, his hair short as a thrall’s should be, naked before his betters.

            The razor clicked off and Fury ran a hand across Loki’s head. Loki shuddered.

            The trashbag full of dark curls went into the garbage, where it belonged.

            Fury had him kneel in the kitchen again and for a while he didn’t say anything. He just looked at Loki.

            “I know about Barton.”

            Loki flinched as though he’d been kicked.

            “It did take him a week to find that crack in Jarvis’ armor, but after that he had relatively smooth sailing.”

            Loki’s mind raced.

            “Master Stark patched the—”

            Fury smacked Loki across the face hard enough that his neck cracked. Loki swallowed and bowed his head again.

            “Did I ask you a question?”

            “No Director.” Loki whispered.

            “Stark has been soft with you. That arrogance is coming back. Tell me again, what are you Loki?”

            A person. “I’m a prisoner, Director.”

            “And what’s you worth?”

            Was worth a requirement for existence? If it was then Loki couldn’t comprehend how so many many beings continued to spew their spawn across the galaxy.

            He swallowed the spark he didn’t realize he still had inside him, but he could tell he wasn’t fast enough. Fury saw it.

            “I’m worthless, Director.”

            “See now that rang rather hollow. And that concerns me, Loki. Because your opinion of your value in this universe is what got you believing you deserved to be Emperor of my planet.”

            Fury walked slowly around him. “I think you’re in need of retraining.”

            Loki felt the sudden urge to vomit. Fury was going to bring him back to S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison. He could feel his prison brain surging to the surface, seizing control of his trembling body. He let it happen. He was bad at illusions without his magic. Fury had seen through him and now he needed his humility not to be an act or he was going to be living it again and he would be broken into so many little pieces…

            “Please…” He whispered and then was horrified that he’d spoken out of turn, but Fury seemed more amused than anything.

            “Please what? Please take you back to S.H.I.E.L.D where you belong? Is that what you want?”

            He shook his head, sweat dripping down his face. But he couldn’t answer either. Were prisoners allowed to have wants?

            “No? That’s not what you want?”

            Loki nodded hesitantly.

            “But you’re not secure here. If Barton could get in, anyone could. And that means surely someone as smart as you are could get out.”

            Loki shook his head. “I wouldn’t. I’m being good.”

            Fury chuckled coldly. “ _Good_? You aren’t good. There is no goodness in you. You struggle with even basic obedience.”

            He was right. Lately even when Loki’s body was obeying his thoughts were rebellious. Wondering what the collar’s limits were. Wondering what kind of freedoms he’d have in Stark’s lab. Wondering if he would find happiness here.

            He didn’t deserve happiness. He knew that. Or he’d known that. He’d forgotten, but his prison brain remembered. The cessation of pain was happiness enough. He should’ve stayed grateful for it. Now Fury would make it begin again.

            “Yes Director.” He acknowledged, softly.

            Fury, when he dared to glance up towards his face, was examining him Like he was an insect ready for dissection.

            “The way I see it, there are two options. Option one, I send you back to S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison until you remember your place without being reminded.”

            Loki felt himself curling towards the floor. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t. There would be nothing left of him if he returned, only a gibbering broken shell.

            “Option two, I give you a reminder now and let you continue staying here so long as both Stark and you adhere to the recommendations I give you.”

            He didn’t know what Fury had in mind and that was terrifying. But anything was better than going back there.

            “So what will it be?”

             He kept his gaze down, his head bent, humble. “Please remind me of my place, Director.” It almost hurt, saying those words, but they came out cracked and low and Fury smiled and he knew it would be okay. Everything would be okay.

 

            **Okay is one of the most relative terms on the planet. Also I'm being cruel again. But in my defense Fury just walked right in and took charge. Who was I to argue with an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D?   Once again this fic is heading in a different direction than originally envisioned but I've been liking it so far. Let me know what you think too!**


	21. Loki's Purpose

            **Don't let your mouth write checks that your butt can't cash. I love that saying. It's good advice. So I'm covering the check I've been writing to all of you: a speedy update, even if it's a short one! And a sad one...**

 

 

            Fury didn’t hurt him very much. It was only a riding crop. And the words were only words.

_I am worthless. I am nothing. I obey._

            Fury reminded him. Reminded him that he owed both Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D his life, as pathetic as it was. That he was guilty of sins that he could never pay for. That he shouldn’t just be obedient but grateful that he was _allowed_ to be obedient instead of being in pain. That who he _was_ was the reason he was in this position now.

            The shock collar replaced the crop when Fury’s arm tired. The words became automatic, a steady and sincere stream. He remembered his place now. He was surprised he’d forgotten, even for a moment.

            He pictured himself sitting with Stark in one of the kitchen chairs that he stared at as his body convulsed and he was horrified at how he’d slipped. That wasn’t for him. That was for people.

            Loki didn’t try to get up when Fury stopped. He lay on his stomach on the blessedly cool tile. Fury came up to him and he kissed Fury’s boots, the gleaming black leather on his lips.

           His body felt empty without the electricity animating it. He felt empty.

           Fury seemed pleased and that was all Loki cared about. He would stay here. Fury wouldn’t condemn him to that cement box, to his faceless tormentors.

           Except Fury was shaking his head. “You’re close. Very close. But I know you’re only behaving because you’re trying to avoid real punishment. I don’t know if I can let you stay here.”

            Loki’s guts tried to slither into his feet. He could barely lift his head from the tile but he rolled it back and forth. “Please, Director, I’m trying, I’m trying, please don’t, I can’t… I can’t!”

            He couldn’t make full sentences. Fury kicked him in the ribs. “You’re talking out of turn again.”

            Immediately Loki fell silent. He pressed himself to the floor, trying to look small and pitiable.

            Fury’s tone turned thoughtful. “Your tongue has always gotten you into trouble. Maybe it’s the real problem here. Maybe you are trying to be good and you just don’t sound like it.”

            Loki nodded frantically. He was trying to be good. He’d _been_ trying. He was trying even harder now that he remembered what good meant. He would be quiet, he would be obedient, he would be grateful for his place in the tower. He would.

            Fury pulled something from the inside pocket of his enormous dark coat. It glinted in the white kitchen light. His gag. Golden metal etched with runes that were unnecessary now that he wore the others permanently on his wrists.

            He didn’t want it on him. He didn’t want that cruel metal anywhere near him. But Fury gestured for him to get up and he forced himself to his knees with quivering limbs.

            Loki didn’t move as Fury brought the gag to his head, covering the entire lower half of his face. It was made just for him, hugging the line of his jaw perfectly. Asgardian craftsmanship at its best. Fury fastened it tightly behind Loki’s head. At least it couldn’t catch on his hair this time. There was none to be caught.

            Fury stood back and Loki kept as still as he could, head bowed, the picture of silent obedience.

            “You should finish cleaning the windows.”

             Loki’s back burned with welts and his limbs were deadened with excess electricity, but he made himself move as quickly as he could. He refilled the bucket he had spilled so long ago that his pants were dry again and he cleaned the windows with his trembling hands. He hardly saw the sun sinking outside. He hunted only for smudges, seeking to do the best job possible.

            When he was done Fury ran a hand across his bare head. Loki didn’t shudder.

            “Good.” Loki felt a spark of something like happiness. He was good. Or as good as a worthless criminal could claim to be.

            “Now.” Fury clasped his hands together. “You’re going to wait for Stark. Because he commands you. He’s the one you will obey without question. The one you owe for allowing you to stay here. So you’re going to wait in readiness until he releases you.”

             Loki nodded even though he didn’t know what that entailed. Fury pulled him to his feet and walked him to the utility closet near the bathroom. He opened the door and Loki stared blankly inside.

             Fury explained it to him slowly, with emphasis, like he was thick. “You’re going to wait here. Because you, like all the other things in this closet, are waiting to be put to work. Because that’s what you’re good for and it’s all that you’re good for. Stark will coddle you. He will try to get you to think differently. But you _will_ remember your place. Won’t you?”

             Loki accepted the implied threat with his immediate nod. He would remember. He needed to be useful to Stark. Or Fury would bring him to the place where they found his pain more useful than his ability to amuse or keep things clean.

             Fury moved a few buckets out of the way. There was just enough space for Loki to kneel below the bottom of the shelving unit. The floor was concrete and his knees were already aching but he ignored them, pressing himself back into the small space.

             “I’ll be watching you Loki. You won’t move and you won’t make a sound. Not until Stark comes to release you. And remember your lesson. Or I’ll be back.”

             Loki nodded fervently. Fury’s boot was close and Loki crushed his ribs to kiss it once more.

             “Good boy.” Fury shut the door.

              Darkness enveloped him. There was one tiny crack where light seeped in beneath the door and it wasn’t enough to see anything by. The cement was freezing and his knees and shins were bruised and screaming. His lips pressed against the metal of the gag and his mouth tasted like copper. He swallowed and it was dry. His stomach was empty and it sang its song of hunger. He wished it would stay silent like the rest of him.

              He wondered when Stark would return. He’d thought of him briefly, when Fury had begun his lessons. What would Stark have done if he’d interrupted? Loki didn’t like thinking about that. Fury would’ve been angry. So would Stark.

              It was for the best that he hadn’t come. Loki remembered who he was now. He couldn’t believe he’d been upset by the idea of Stark thinking of him as equipment for his lab. How could he be upset when Stark had been seeing him for what he was?

              He had to hunch slightly downward to keep from hitting the shelf above him. Already his back was beginning to ache, adding that pain to the hot stinging of the welts. He wondered how long he could hold to the kneeling position. Fury had told him not to move. But his legs would give out eventually. Much sooner than they would have normally, since he’d been electrocuted.

               Loki decided to worry about that when it happened. For the moment he could hold himself up. He would be quiet and obedient and good and he wouldn’t return to that place. He just had to remember the lessons he’d been taught there and everything would be okay.

 

 

               He must have fallen asleep at some point because when he woke his forehead was pressed to the cement and he was folded in half like a paper doll. He couldn’t feel his legs.

               He forced himself up into a kneeling position again. Nothing had changed. It was still black as night inside the closet and the cement was still cold beneath him. It smelled of cleaning chemicals and dust. He wondered if the place that held the cleaning supplies ever got cleaned itself. He’d have to remedy that. He was supposed to be keeping the floors spotless. He hadn’t been trying very hard.

               His mouth was sticky with dryness. He breathed out heavily but there was no sound. The gag absorbed it perfectly. Which was good. He wasn’t supposed to make noise. He needed to stay quiet. Wait for Stark. Like these buckets. Like that mop. He was just another tool to be used and put back in its place.

               His whole body ached. His leg muscles burned along with the marks on his back. He tried shifting his weight but it didn’t do much. He couldn’t straighten or he’d hit the shelf. He let his arms droop and that helped with the shoulder pain at least.

              The relief made him feel guilty. He was supposed to be punished. He was supposed to wait for Stark. He had to prove that he was good, that he knew that he was here to serve, to repay Stark’s kindness. He cursed his own laziness but he couldn’t make himself pull his arms back up. It hurt too much. His limbs felt like they were made of wood.

              He breathed in the stale closet air. He listened for Stark’s arrival but he didn’t hear anything at all outside. Everything was silent, muffled. The only sound was his own heartbeat, pounding away every other noise, replacing them all with an endless repetition, like thunder rumbling in the distance. This was where he belonged: poised and ready to serve his Master. This was his purpose now.

             

              **So I don't know if this was what you were expecting. Too hardcore? Not hardcore enough? Prison brain is back.. yay? The next update may be a while; I have decisions that I haven't made yet... mainly what Stark's going to do when he gets home. It's going to be interesting, that's for sure. Sorry there weren't more answers in this chapter, but that's coming up! Thanks for reading and for giving me such lovely comments; they make my soul glow. :)**


	22. Loki the Houseplant?

          ***Peeks nervously around corner* Hi guys! Um, sorry it's been forever in fanfiction cliffhanger terms, I really really meant to finish the next chapter sooner but the writing muse is a cruel mistress and she did not look well upon this story. On the bright side, I did finally manage to churn this sucker out! So here you go, a fresh crock of Loki-butter, straight from the muse's udder! Wow I have not gotten any less strange, have I? Enjoy!**

 

          He didn’t know how long he’d been in the closet. It was long enough that he’d had to urinate and he didn’t try to use the buckets. He stayed where he was, being good. And it was wet for a while and then he was dry again. So dry, especially his mouth, his lips raw as they rubbed against the metal.

           He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or if they were closed. It didn’t make much difference. Even when they were closed he could almost see the tiny crack of light at the bottom of his vision. He couldn’t smell the cleaning chemicals anymore. His ears felt fuzzy. They were growing accustomed to the silence.

            So it was a complete shock when the door swung away. His eyes must have been open. They burned in the light. He shut them tightly but he didn’t try to turn away, didn’t move.

            He wasn’t sure if it was Fury or Stark who was looking at him. Either way he was glad he was kneeling properly, not slumped forward lazily.

           “Shit.”

           It was Stark. Fury would’ve been pleased. He knew he would’ve. Loki did just what he asked.

           But Stark needed to be pleased too. It was Stark he’d been waiting for. He bent forward blindly, crushing his ribs to press his face to Stark’s feet.

           “Loki are you…?” Stark reached down and Loki could feel a slight pressure on his cheek; Stark touched the gag. Loki tried to open his eyes again but the light was still too bright. It made tears prick behind his eyelids.

           “Shit.” Stark whispered. “Can you stand up?”

           Loki leaned forward onto the floor of the closet. He could lift his torso on shaky arms but he hadn’t been able to feel his legs in a long time and they exploded with pain when he attempted to move them. Luckily his screams were silenced by the gag. His legs fell back into the cramped position they’d been maintaining and he shook his head. No, he couldn’t stand.

          So Stark hooked his arms under Loki’s, dragging him out of the closet.

          Loki would’ve thanked him. That would’ve been speaking out of turn. No wonder Fury had had to gag him.

          Loki could open his eyes a tiny bit now, but he couldn’t really see through the few tears his desiccated body had managed to produce. He lay on the floor where Stark left him. He could hear Stark breathing and it seemed odd, stilted. Was he that heavy?

          “Jarvis why the hell didn’t you call me?”

          Oh. Stark was angry. Loki pressed himself to the carpet. He upset Stark. He was supposed to serve Stark, to please him. Already he was failing to apply the lessons Fury had taught him.

          “My parameters state that I am to call you if Loki is in danger or attempting to escape. Given my knowledge of his alien physiology he would not be in danger of lasting harm for at least 24 more hours.”

          “What the fuck Jarvis? That wasn’t what I— You know what, fine, I’ll work on that later. But what about your “parameters” on letting fucking _intruders_ into my tower?”

           “Director Fury has permission to access Loki at any time, as outlined in Section 8.7 of our contract. I may intervene only if he attempts something that may maim or kill the prisoner.”

           Loki’s vision was clearing now. He could see Stark staring at the ceiling. Loki wondered how closely Stark had read that contract. Fury had to make sure Loki was under control. Fury had to remind him of why he got to stay here. Stark was lax and Loki and Fury both knew it.

          “That’s not… Shit.” Stark passed a hand across his eyes.

           He turned back to Loki. “I’m going to help you sit up, okay?”

          Loki nodded. Stark hauled Loki’s torso upright until he could prop Loki against the hallway. The burning in Loki’s legs had changed to a sharp ache with the renewed bloodflow and his entire body was stiff.

          Stark slammed the door to the utility closet. Then he took a deep breath. “Okay, lean forward, I’m going to take the gag off.”

          Loki bent forward, head bowed, abdomen trembling with the effort of holding himself up. Stark’s fingers fumbled against the back of his head. Then there was a soft click and the gag slid from Loki’s mouth. Again he had an urge to thank Stark. But that would be speaking out of turn.

          He didn’t move himself back to the wall. Stark had told him to lean forward.

          Stark threw the gag down the hallway. It landed with a heavy clunk.

          Then he stared at Loki, who was obviously shaking with the effort of holding himself in the position Stark had placed him in. “You can lean back.”

          Loki slumped back gratefully.

          He could feel Stark examining him.

          “Fury shaved your head.”

           Loki nodded.

          “Did you want him to?”

          No. Loki kept his head low. His voice was scratchy. “It only matters what my Master wants.”

          “I didn’t ask him to shave you. You look like a prisoner.”

          Loki had an urge to make the bitter smile he’d often made at Thor when he was being naïve. He didn’t make it. That would’ve been insolence.

          “Yes master.” Loki’s voice rasped across the words.

           “Damn it. Hold on a second.” Stark darted down the hallway. Loki didn’t move. It seemed odd to hear the faint sounds of someone moving in the distance. The silence was gone.

            Stark came back carrying a glass of water. “Here.”

            Loki took the glass tentatively. He glanced up at Stark.

            “Yes it’s for you, why the fuck else would I have handed it to you?”

            Loki flinched. “Sorry Master.” He drank hurriedly, the cool water soothing all the way down to his empty stomach.

            Stark was rubbing his temples again. Loki finished the water. Stark took the glass and set it on the floor, near the wall.

            “So. What the hell happened while I was gone?”

            Loki opened his mouth but nothing emerged. He didn’t have the words. He didn’t know how to say anything that wouldn’t make Stark angrier.

            Loki was saved from Stark’s piercing gaze by the crackle of speakers. “Director Fury came to see if your containment of Loki was satisfactory.”

            “Yeah I got that much from the fucking report card he left in my elevator. Side note, can’t believe that asshole gave me a B.” Stark somehow looked both amused and angry at the same time. “That’s not the description I’m asking for, Jarv.”

            There was a pause, a recalibration, before Jarvis spoke again. “Director Fury interrupted Loki’s cleaning schedule to perform a thorough test of the electric shock collar.”

            Stark’s hand clenched into a fist.

            “Loki took the Director to his chambers, which Director Fury inspected, and then the Director had Loki reorganize to meet his standards. They returned to the upper level and the Director shaved Loki’s head. Then the Director told Loki he either had to correct Loki’s lapses in behavior personally or return him to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            Loki shuddered. Stark muttered, “Fuck.”

            “Loki submitted to the Director’s punishment, which was carried out with a riding crop, the electrical shock collar, and psychological conditioning. When Director Fury found Loki’s response satisfactory he gagged Loki and lead him to the utility closet where he was ordered to remain until you returned.”

            The hall went silent. Jarvis, apparently having said his piece, added nothing else. He made it sound simple, a logical series of events. And it had been bloodless at least…

            Stark looked drained, hollow. He took a few aimless steps. Then he slumped against a wall. “This isn’t working.”

            Stark’s tone was one of resignation, defeat. He was going to give up on this project. He was going to give Loki back to S.H.I.E.L.D. Panic seized every available neuron in Loki’s brain.

            “I work! I can work! I’m fine! I’ll be fine!” He wasn’t broken! Well, he was, but not in a way that mattered to Stark! He could still be useful he was still—

            “You can’t even stand up! You look like a fucking zombie. And I can’t do this anymore.”

            Now Loki’s brain was torn between realizing he hadn’t been asked a question so he shouldn’t speak at all, and wanting to babble endlessly until something he said appeased Stark.

            The babbling won.

            “Please Master, don’t send me back, I can, please, I’ll—”

            “I said I can’t fucking _do_ this!” Stark’s shout made Loki cringe against the drywall. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing! I don’t even know _why_ I’m doing anything! First Fury guilt trips me into taking you and then he shows up to say I’m doing a shitty job? I didn’t want this job in the first place and I certainly don’t want it if Fury’s going to use it to keep me under his beady eye!”

            Loki was trembling again. “I can do more.” He whispered. “I can do whatever you want me to do. I can be useful, I swear.”

            Stark snorted. “Fury made it pretty damn clear in his little report card that I can’t have you as a lab assistant, so what exactly does that leave? I don’t need a servant Loki, I have Jarvis, I have my robots…”

            “I can mend your clothing!” Loki burst. “I can translate manuscripts, I can make potions, I can garden, I can tumble, I can… I can sing…” Stark didn’t want him for sexual pleasure and he doubted Stark had any need of his fighting abilities and it was almost sad how short the list of other things he could do was. Mostly he had done magic and that had been enough. And now that wasn’t on the list anymore and what exactly had he spent the rest of his centuries doing? Pathetic.

            Stark’s eyes were a caustic mixture of sadness and amusement. “You sound like a personal ad. You can _sing_?”

            Loki blushed. He didn’t know why he’d even listed that. It wasn’t a talent he’d displayed since his first few centuries. He was unmanly enough as a magic user without raising a voice that moved fluidly between alto and soprano. The one teacher who’d heard him had told him he should use his voice. That his songs could make the birds fall silent. But Loki never sang, except when he knew he was alone.

            “I have a… passable voice.”

            “Interesting. Not exactly useful. Potions though… Except that sounds like something you’d need magic for.”

            Loki shook his head eagerly. “With the proper ingredients I can make many draughts, regardless of whether I possess my own magic.”

            “The problem is that I’d have to take your word on what the potions would do. I’m not sure I, or Fury for that matter, could take that risk.”

            Of course. He was a liar, a murderer. Who knew what he could do given the right mix of herbs? Stark didn’t trust him. Why would he? But still he knew Stark’s curiosity…

            “You would know all of the ingredients. I wouldn’t try anything, I swear Master.”

            But Stark was shaking his head again. “It doesn’t matter. Allowing you to do any of those things probably falls under Fury’s idea of treating you too humanely.”

            He was probably right. Though singing and tumbling for Stark would have embarrassed him, had he had any pride left, the things he’d listed were more like hobbies than actual work. And his brain was calming again. He shouldn’t argue with his Master.

            “Yes, Master.” Loki knelt with his head bowed. He had tried. That was all he could do.

            “So that’s it. You’re just going to let me give you back to your torturers?”

            “Yes, Master.” His voice quivered but he didn’t move. He belonged to Stark. If he had no use here then it made sense that Stark would return him to S.H.I.E.L.D. He had failed his only purpose: serving his Master.

            “Fuck.” Stark kicked the baseboard beside Loki. Then he repeated more softly, “Fuck.”

            He began pacing the hall. “I’m going to kill Fury. I’m going to stab him through his other eye. Because clearly he had to be blind to think giving you to me was a good idea.”

            Stark kicked the baseboard again.

            Then he sighed. “Sing something.”

            Loki blinked. “What would you like me to sing?”

            “I don’t fucking care, just sing something.”

            For a moment his mind was a void despite the urgency of the situation, the need for this song to somehow sway Stark into keeping him instead of throwing him in his rightful cell. He didn’t know the music of Midgard well and much of what he did know was vapid and ill-suited to a solo performance.

           So he didn’t choose a Midgardian song. Instead he sang a song he’d heard a snatch of once, sung by a bard in Alfheim who had crooned so mournfully that Loki had been unable to forget it.

            He swallowed, took a deep breath, and urged his voice not to fail him.

 

My love is gone, carried away  
By the wind that shakes the willow,  
And all the land is beaten hard  
By the wind that shakes the willow.  
But I will hold her close to me  
In heart and dearest memory,  
And with her strength to steel my soul,  
Her love to warm my heart-strings,  
I will stand where we once sang,  
          Though cold wind shakes the willow.           

           

            Those were the only lines he had. It might not have been enough. To his own ears the song had sounded achingly sad, run through with solemn determination. It was simple but beautiful in that simplicity.

            Stark had stayed still the entire time Loki sang. His face was impassive, gazing somewhere in the middle distance. Then he turned to Loki, seeming almost surprised at the silence.

            “Was that it?”

            He was disappointed. Loki bowed his head, acid threatening to rise up his throat, a throat which still stung from the long dryness of the closet, a throat whose roughness had probably doomed his last chance at remaining Stark’s vassal rather than a torturer’s plaything.

            “It’s the only verse I know...” Frail excuse. He should have chosen better.

            Stark leaned against the wall. “That’s too bad. It’s beautiful.”

            Loki started. He had actually liked it? “Thank you Master.”

            “Do you know why I don’t have any plants in here?”

            The non sequitur threw Loki off. Was it normal for Midgardians to keep plants inside their homes?

            “No…”

            “It’s because I can’t even keep a houseplant alive.”

            If the word “houseplant” existed it must mean keeping plants indoors was indeed a normal practice on Midgard.

            Stark stared at him. “You’re way more fucking complicated than a dumb plant.”

            Loki stared back at Stark, though only at his chest. This actually worried him? That Loki might wither away and die? He might be less than a god in his current state, but he wasn’t some fragile mortal either. Had he not endured years of torture and intermittent periods of starvation? Had he not grown up fighting beside the god of thunder, outwitting foes and friends alike? Had he not survived the ruin of Jotunheim, Odin’s parenting, and the inborn hatred of all his Aesir peers? Yet Stark thought that left alone in a luxurious penthouse stocked with every necessity for life, he couldn’t live?

            “Master, I am capable of caring for myself, so long as you permit me to do so.” He prayed the statement didn’t sound condescending.

            Stark snorted. “Yeah, letting yourself get shot and then not telling me you were running a fever so that you got so sick you nearly died; you’re definitely doing a great job there.”

            Loki blinked. He felt confident he would have lived even without Bruce’s treatment, but he supposed to Stark it would have appeared a mortal wound.

            “That’s without mentioning your mental health, which I’m pretty sure has only gotten worse since my damn asshole coworkers keep showing up to mess with you.”

            Loki wanted to protest that, but he had no idea what was normal on that front anymore. Was the strange sense of warmth he was feeling as Stark muttered these oddly observant and protective thoughts normal?

            “And then I’m told by Fury that I’m treating you too _nicely_ and I just… I can’t do this.”

            Loki tried to define “this”. Did he mean he couldn’t care for Loki? Did he think that he had somehow failed, when Loki’s time in his tower had been his best time spent in three years? Was that _guilt_ in Stark’s voice?

            To Loki’s surprise, Jarvis spoke. “In your care, Master Stark, Loki has regained 5% of his bodyweight. His blood pressure has dropped, he is sleeping an extra hour uninterrupted by night terrors, and he has lost all symptoms of chronic dehydration. He has suffered no sprains, no broken bones, and no concussions.”

            It was a little disturbing to realize how closely Jarvis was monitoring him, but it put into factual words what Loki wanted to articulate, but couldn’t.

            “That’s… I haven’t even…” Stark was unbalanced, undecided, unsure of how this became his life, of how he could have helped even when he knew he was failing.

            “Please Master Stark. Use me for something other than the sound of my screams and I will be grateful for it.”

            Stark ran his hand across his face. Then finally he muttered. “I need a drink. Can you stand up now?”

           Loki nodded and pulled himself shakily to his feet, glad that he could force himself upright, show Stark he wasn’t completely worthless. He stood with legs still prickling and cramping, burning with the return of warm oxygenated blood.

            Stark headed for the kitchen and Loki followed as quickly as he could. Stark put a long pour of something amber into a glass at the bar and then went to the living room, settling into the new black armchair. Loki dropped into a kneeling position on his right. Stark didn’t comment.

            Stark took a swallow of the drink. “Why’d he lock you in there?”

            Loki gave him a blank look. Stark waved a hand impatiently. “Why the utility closet?”

            Of all the questions Stark might have asked. Loki thought the answer to that one rather obvious. “I’m here for your use, Master.”

            A sudden coughing fit came over Stark and Loki wondered if he should do something, but there was nothing that that the mortal could actually choke on, so he just waited it out.

            Stark swallowed. “You’re okay with that?”

            Okay was not the right word. But he had a place here and it wasn’t on a chair with straps holding down his arms and legs. Stark had yet to use him for anything but manual labor, and mild at that.

            “I’m grateful to be here, Master.” The golden carpet was very soft beneath his knees.

            Stark didn’t say anything for a long time. He just took pulls from his glass. His hand dropped from the chair of the arm and brushed the top of Loki’s head. His fingers began absently running across Loki’s scalp, which still itched a little from the recent shaving. Stark’s hand felt good. He lifted his head slightly, allowing Stark’s fingers better access.

            Then Stark looked down at his hand and froze. He pulled the hand away. Loki should’ve known. Stark didn’t want to touch a worthless criminal.

            Stark didn’t look at him again. “Go back to your room Loki. There should be food waiting.”

            Loki nodded and rose. “Yes, Master.”

            He left Stark sitting in his chair. He could feel Stark’s gaze on his back as he left. He didn’t turn around.

 

            **So now you know my dark secret... in my head-canon Loki can sing! Granted that seems a little obvious, I mean, silver-tongue, come on. Credit to Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time for the song Loki sings btw because I have no clue how to write a song and also I thought it'd be funny if their universes overlapped. Jordan's cycle is a little Ragnarok-y, right? Also male-magic users have issues there too! Loki would gain such a sympathetic audience!** **Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter that was ridiculously hard to write! Not gonna lie it may be a bit until the next one too.. once I've lost my cushion ahead of the already published stuff I tend to get slow. But I'm still plugging away at it, promise! Thanks for all the sweet comments, they kept me going this summer. Love you guys!**

 


	23. A Norse Lullaby

   

**I'm baaaaack! Just in time for the holidays! Not that this has anything to do with those. No this is just a fairly quiet, fairly short chapter that I managed to churn out in the course of the past two months. Enjoy!  
**

        

            There was indeed food waiting in Loki's room and he couldn’t help but enjoy it. Thick beef stew and soft bread and milk. He remembered the tasteless “vitamin-enriched” gruel of the prison. He remembered the bitter iron taste of every sip of water. He licked the stew bowl clean.

            Then the water of the shower lapped away his lingering cramps, chased away his sweat and urine. He scrubbed his head until his shorn scalp no longer itched so much, until he felt semi-normal again.

            For the first time in a long time he hesitated beside the bed. He didn’t deserve any of this.

            But Stark didn’t want to find him on the floor.

            And Stark was the one he needed to please.

            Loki lowered himself onto the bare mattress and stretched just once into all of his limbs. It felt like heaven. But it took him hours to fall asleep, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat, wondering what Stark would say the next day.

 

 

           When he woke breakfast was waiting and after breakfast Jarvis gave him his list of chores, as though nothing had happened. Stark wasn’t home. The penthouse was silent and Loki scrubbed floors until his hands were raw, his legs still aching from the closet, asking all the time in his head, am I useful now?

           The lab plans were clearly scrapped. Whether that was because Stark and Fury couldn’t agree on what Loki should be doing in the lab or because Stark had other things to do or even because Stark no longer wanted him in his lab, Loki had no idea. In the two weeks after Fury’s checkup he saw little of Stark.

            Instead there was only Jarvis’ ever-present company. Not that Loki spoke to him often. He was only to speak when spoken to. Fury had reminded him of that. And Jarvis rarely spoke first. So unless Loki had a question pertaining to his current task he stayed quiet. Admittedly he found himself making up questions as time went by, just so something would shatter the silence in the immaculate penthouse.

            Loki had thought “spotless” was an exaggeration before, but now Stark seemed determined that it should be reality. He cleaned the utility closet so the next time he knelt in it there would be no dust or cobwebs to cling to him. He cleaned the elevators and all of their buttons until they shone. He wiped clean the many glass bottles in Stark’s bar and the smooth shelves beneath them. He removed everything from the refrigerator and cleaned that out too. He polished the weights and all of the equipment in Stark’s workout room. He even went inside the living room fireplace completely naked, so as not to ruin any clothes, and scrubbed away the soot for hours, until he could touch it with a finger and it came away unsoiled.

            He smelled like cleaning chemicals despite the nightly showers he took. He worked from 7 a.m until 6 p.m. with a half hour break for lunch and he took his time to do each task perfectly, no shortcuts.

            He didn’t read the books in Stark’s library. He finished reorganizing the last shelves alphabetically and after that he only entered when he was ordered to dust or vacuum inside.

            The few times that Stark requested dinner Loki served him properly and knelt at his side while he ate. Loki put the leftovers in neat plastic containers in the fridge. He threw them away a week later if they remained uneaten.

            Stark complimented his cooking or gave him feedback on how to improve it, but generally tapped away on his phone during the meals. He didn’t attempt conversation.

            Loki didn’t know how he felt. It was quiet. Peaceful. There were no threats, no orders beyond the unending list of chores. He shouldn’t mind being alone. He shouldn’t mind lying on a comfortable mattress even if it had no sheets or blankets and thus remained somewhat cold. He shouldn’t mind the weight of the collar around his neck, barely noticeable apart from the slight itch its rubbing caused. He shouldn’t mind catching glimpses of the black runes on his wrist as he scrubbed Stark’s penthouse clean.

           He was grateful, as he had told Stark. Whenever a thought of his old cell snagged his consciousness he was filled with gladness for where he was now. So he didn’t know why he also felt so very hollow.

 

 

           It was storming. The rain was pouring down and the lightning painted the sky in brilliant blues and purples. The thunder cracked the very marrow of Loki’s bones.

           He couldn’t sleep. He’d been sent to his chamber after dinner as usual but even though there he couldn’t see the storm, he could still hear it. Stark claimed to have endowed the room with sound-proofing but well, Stark had only mortal ears.

           Loki wondered if Thor was close. If he was angry. Or if this was one of the many storms that raged without his brother’s influence, a simple joining of hot and cold air and all the moisture in Midgard’s damp atmosphere.

           The loose black t-shirt and soft gray sweatpants he wore didn’t keep him from shivering in the coolness of the room. Jarvis had told him he could change the temperature but he never did. It kept him alert. It reminded him of who he was.

           Suddenly the door to his room clicked open.

           “Master Stark requests your presence.”

           Loki blinked. Then he stood and took the elevator to the penthouse. His heart was beating faster than he’d like. What did Stark want? They never saw each other after Stark dismissed him for the night.

           He grew even more nervous when Jarvis directed him to Stark’s bedchambers. He had never seen them. He’d never even touched the door, lest he bring down punishment. Invitation only, he remembered.

           He swallowed and thunder cracked outside and he wished strongly for Thor, but that was a stupid wish. What would his golden brother do here beyond gasping, horrified at what Loki had become?

          He pushed open the enormous wooden door gently. Stark’s bed was equally gargantuan, the first thing he saw, spread in black and red, thick with blankets and pillows and possessing a beautiful wooden frame. The room smelled of some kind of musky cologne and the carpet was thicker and plusher than any Loki had ever felt. The walls held only abstract paintings and a row of enormous windows currently curtained. There was also a door that Loki assumed lead to the master bathroom, a popular convention in Midgardian homes.

          Strangely Stark’s room reminded him of Asgard. Of home. Luxury was an assumption here, everything thick with cloth, artisan-made, designed to please every sense. Rich colors and dark wood. Loki felt simultaneously unsettled and soothed by this new environment.

          Stark wasn’t in his bed. He was sitting in a beautiful leather armchair in one corner, a thick black robe with gold accents pulled closely around him.

          Loki came towards him slowly and stood before him uncertainly. Should he kneel?

          Stark looked tired and vaguely pained. He smelled faintly of alcohol and Loki could see a mostly empty glass on the stand beside the chair.

          Stark didn’t speak and finally Loki queried. “Master?”

          Stark blinked and seemed to notice Loki for the first time. “Oh hey, I was just…”

          He trailed off. Then he passed a hand over his face. “This might be stupid. But I can’t sleep and Jarvis said you were awake and… will you sing something?”

          Stark wanted him to sing for him? Norns, why had he ever revealed that talent?

          “What would you like me to sing?”

          “Just something… sleepy. I don’t know.”

           Well he wouldn’t sing in Aesir. He couldn’t force himself and Stark probably wouldn’t appreciate it anyway, as he wouldn’t understand a word. So instead he stole from Midgard this time, a lullaby old by Stark's standards, and with lyrics that Loki liked.

 

The sky is dark and the hills are white

As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;

And this is the song the storm-king sings,

As over the world his cloak he flings:

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep"

He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:

"Sleep, little one, sleep."

 

On yonder mountain-side a vine

Clings at the foot of a mother pine;

The tree bends over the trembling thing,

And only the vine can hear her sing:

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;

What shall you fear when I am here?

Sleep, little one, sleep."

 

The king may sing in his bitter flight,

The pine may croon to the vine to-night,

But the little snowflake at my breast

Liketh the song I sing the best, ---

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;

Weary thou art, next my heart;

Sleep, little one, sleep."

 

          Loki let the last note fade slowly. Stark’s eyes had closed as Loki sang, his face and body relaxing. The silence in the room felt warmer, broken only by the sounds of the storm still raging outside, softened slightly by the curtains covering the windows.

          They were both still in the dim glow of the bedroom. Then Stark slowly opened his eyes. “Where’s that song from?”

          “It was written many years ago by mortals, about the Aesir.” About his false father, whose name he’d rather not invoke.

           Stark finished the last swallow of the liquid in his glass. “The storm-king… Odin, right?”

           Loki ignored the flash of the one-eyed king his mind conjured. “Most likely. Thor has not yet taken the throne, by your lore or ours.”

           “And the mother at the end… Frigga?”

           This time the image was painful. Golden hair and soft eyes and the gentlest smile that he’d never see again. “Perhaps. Or simply the singer.”

           “But then the snowflake…?”

            Loki liked to pretend it was him. The ice-cold child in Frigga’s warm embrace. But he knew the other mortal tales about him and that wouldn’t fit, Frigga cuddling a devious trickster instead of her cherished firstborn. “Thor. Pale before he grew his golden mane in manhood.”

            Stark just looked at him for a moment. “If you say so.”

            Then he stood, moving slowly but purposefully to the bed. He pulled back the heavy covers and then he untied the robe, slipping it to his feet.

            He wasn’t self-conscious; Loki would’ve been surprised if he had been. There was no shirt beneath the robe, only boxers. Loki could see the well-defined muscles of his chest and the strange, fascinating scar around the mechanical circle that covered his heart. It looked painful, the scars jagged and inexpert.

            Stark crawled beneath the covers, sighing softly. “Sing it one more time, please. Before you leave.”

            So Loki did.

 

 

           Stark was in the penthouse more the next week. He still didn’t talk much to Loki. But he was in the library when Loki came in to dust. He had Loki make him a sandwich for lunch, which he was almost never home for, and he ate it at the counter watching Loki wash windows. And three nights that week he called Loki to his chamber to sing him to sleep.

           He made requests now, mortal songs, and if Loki didn’t know them Jarvis would project the words and notes, making pages of the air and allowing him a few minutes to read before singing to Stark. He sometimes stumbled over the unfamiliar cadences, out of practice by several centuries. But Stark never commented on his mistakes, only murmured praise or slipped to sleep, leaving Loki to finish his song for Jarvis’ mechanical ears.

           Loki didn’t ask Stark why he had him sing. It wasn’t his place to question and besides, he realized that he’d missed it. He hadn’t allowed himself to sing in decades, and even before that he would only sing alone. There was something nice about having an audience, especially one as easily pleased as Stark apparently was.

            He could forget, singing, that he sang to a captor. That he was trapped here and that his voice was being used as much as his hands were used when he scrubbed Stark’s toilets. At least he could choose how to sing, suiting the rhythms and enunciations to his voice. Even if the songs didn’t sound exactly the way mortals sang them, Stark didn’t care.

            The cleaning schedule lightened that week too. Apparently they had caught up on most of the bigger projects and that meant it was back to regular cleaning that was more like maintenance.

            That Saturday night Loki was finishing a thorough scrubbing of Stark’s pool, one last big project. Jarvis had drained it and Loki had spent the whole day on this task, making the white tiles gleam again, cleaning out the filters, and scrubbing. Lots and lots of scrubbing.

            His navy t-shirt clung to him with sweat and he could feel beads of it running down his scalp, but the progress had been great. The pool looked good and his muscles, though aching, felt strong. He knew he’d grown stronger since leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. There he’d had no ability to exercise and no desire, in addition to having no nutrition to fuel muscle growth. He didn’t dare use Stark’s gym here but his cleaning regime involved a decent amount of exertion and the use of different muscle groups and he felt better now than he had in a long time.

            Suddenly Jarvis addressed him. “Master Stark is on his way home and he’s bringing guests. Please return to your chamber.”

            Jarvis never called it a cell. But it was. A cell he willingly locked himself in each night. “Yes Jarvis.”

           He took the time to put away his supplies and then headed directly to his elevator. It was six ‘o clock and he’d really wanted to finish the pool tonight. But now he might as well shower and have dinner and go to bed and swallow the faint bitterness of leaving his own projects unfinished. He reminded himself that things were better than he could have imagined, back in his cell in S.H.I.E.L.D. Better than he deserved. And if he was careful, things might just stay this way.

 

 

           **Loki singing Stark to sleep is one of the cutest things I can imagine right now, and I hope you thought it was cute too! Or at least I hope you didn't think it was completely weird and maybe kind of creepy? Because I can see how you could read it that way too, but in my head it's cute! I was going to follow it up by having something really cruel happen with the guests involving midnight snacks and Loki being humiliated in front of some attractive women Stark brought home, but my muse wasn't loving it so as of right now literally nothing happens involving these guests. Just managing expectations. Although if someone gives me an idea I really like in the comments... something might happen? Either way the next chapter will be more exciting because I'm writing a scene that I've wanted to write for a long time. Which also means I'm being a perfectionist about it so who knows if it'll get posted before the new year... Sorry :/ But hey, we're all still here and this fic's still getting written! So here's to the future! Cheers!**

**P.S. Credit to R. L. Baldwin for writing the song I used, 'A Norse Lullaby'. Although since he wrote it in 1891 I think it's public domain now? Either way, pretty cool song right?**

 


	24. Lightning

           **Sooooo this chapter went in a different direction than I was originally planning. I knew I wanted to write a scene like this but I wasn't sure when it would be and my muse was just like "now, write it now!" So I wrote it. Enjoy!  
**

 

           That night Loki dreamed of lightning. Lightning that danced in white-purple streaks around him as he stood in a dark empty field, feeling the rain on his face. He ached every time the bolts touched him, not with physical pain but with a searing sadness. He missed the wind. He missed the rain. He missed the lightning.

           When he woke he could still see imprints of bolts glowing red on the insides of his eyelids. The dream was wonderful but now that he was awake he felt distinctly uneasy. He hadn’t had a dream that wasn’t a nightmare in… he didn’t know how long. Dreamlessness had been his prayer each night since well before his time in S.H.I.E.L.D’s prison. So to have a dream that he actually enjoyed… if he hadn’t known better he’d have said it was magically induced.

           But the runes tattooed into his skin were smotheringly secure. Not even the smallest wisp of his power could seep through though he tugged at it anyway, double-checking. Sometimes he called on it accidentally, his finger bleeding from a paper-cut, his natural instinct to heal it instantaneously. Nothing ever happened. No response, not even a quiver.

           So how could he have a dream that smacked of magic? Unless it wasn’t _his_ magic.

           Lightning always drew his thoughts to Thor. But Thor never studied magic and dream-casting took extreme finesse, unless you wanted the receiver driven insane or comatose. There was no way he could construct a dream like that and even if he had, why would he send Loki a dream of a lightning storm?

           Loki ate breakfast slowly, mulling it over. There was a time he’d felt something like this, eons ago, when he and Thor still shared a nursery. Thor had had a nightmare. And Thor’s magic, sensing threat, had cast the nightmare out of Thor’s head and into Loki’s.

           Loki couldn’t remember what the nightmare had been, only that it was terrifying. Frigga had saved him from it in the end, realizing why Loki wouldn’t wake and shattering the dream-spell. After that their rooms had been charmed against all dream magic.

           He didn’t think Thor knew about that incident, or at least not about the cause of it. Thor hadn’t cast that dream on purpose and dream magic never became part of his training. So how could it happen again? Unless Thor was thinking of Loki. Thinking of him with such strong intent that his magic reached out and warped Loki’s dreams.

           Which meant what? Why would Thor be thinking of him now, when they hadn’t seen each other since the battle with the Chitauri? Loki’s presence in Stark’s tower was a secret, as had been his location in S.H.I.E.L.D’s confines. The runes hid Loki from all magic users and Loki had no doubt that Thor’d been told to stay away anyway, lest he risk an interplanetary incident. Besides, Thor wouldn’t _want_ to see him. Loki had stabbed him. Loki had betrayed him, cursed him, usurped his position… As kind and forgiving as his faux-brother could be, that relationship had ended. They weren’t brothers any longer. The dream must just be a dream.

           Loki finished his breakfast and pulled on a gray t-shirt and dark jeans. Jarvis didn’t have a very long list for him today. Completing is work on Stark’s pool was the main priority and he was hopeful that if he finished everything quickly he could rest in the afternoon. Though the dream hadn’t been frightening he hadn’t slept well and he could already feel it in the heaviness of his limbs.

           The penthouse upstairs was silent. Stark had requested lunch today but he had already left for his lab, where he seemed to spend the majority of his waking hours. Loki went straight to the utility closet and prepared to re-enter the dry pool.

           It was eleven thirty by the time he stopped scrubbing and the pool was sparkling, ready to be refilled. He’d get a drink and then begin preparing Stark’s lunch. Something simple today. Sandwiches and a salad maybe.

           He was almost to the kitchen when he felt it. Just a slight tingle at the back of his neck. There was something different in the air. It felt thick, suddenly pressured, and he could smell something like ozone with a tinge of smoke. Ice shot down his spine.

           Something snapped and all of the lights in the penthouse sprang to life, sparks spitting from outlets, electricity dancing around every metal fixture. A wind was howling, swirling indoors, pulling towards the balcony where he heard the glass doors shudder and then shatter, spraying crystals across the tile floor.

           Loki faced the new jagged penthouse entrance and fell to his knees, prostrating himself on the carpet. Maybe the intruder wouldn’t see him. Maybe he’d be so quiet and still that they’d just walk right past. He was hidden from the balcony by kitchen wall but if the burglar came around the corner he’d be very visible. Maybe he should run. Loki tried to spring to his feet but found that his knees were locked. His prison brain was convinced: when someone enters a room the floor is safest. Especially if it’s someone with power.

           Loki heard footsteps crunch onto the broken glass and suddenly everything went quiet. The wind ceased, the lights dimmed back to their normal settings, and sparks stopped spitting from every outlet.

           Loki had a very short list of guesses as to who had just burst into the tower. As the footsteps came around the corner he had to look over anyway, confirming. In the one glance he dared before Thor’s gaze found him, Thor looked exactly the same.

           Thor’s hair was still long and golden around his handsome face. His shoulders were still broad as an ox’s, his arm muscles rippling below his favored sleeveless leather tunic. And those were his unmistakable sky blue eyes, narrowed intently, scanning the room as his famous red cape swept majestically behind him. He was precisely as Loki remembered him, down to the leather details on his boots. Which made Loki all the more painfully aware of how much he had changed.

           Loki’s head was shorn, his neck collared, his wrists tattooed. Even beyond those obvious markers there were signs Thor would be bound to notice. His pallor. The weight he had lost. The faint tremors in his hands. The struggle it took for him to look even near someone’s face, let alone to stare them coldly in the eye…

           Loki pressed himself into the carpet. Maybe if he tried hard enough he would disappear. Maybe his mind had finally snapped and this wasn’t happening at all. His ears were ringing. His mouth was dry. He could smell the chlorine on his clothes. He could feel his fingers twitching against the floor.

           Why was Thor here? What reason could he possibly have to be here? Loki didn’t want to be seen. Loki didn’t want Thor to see what they’d done to him, what he was now. What he had always been but had never admitted to being: weak, cowardly, pathetic.

           He was defeated and enslaved by mortals, stripped of his divinity, of his magic, of his pride. He was nothing. And Thor was the God of Thunder, Crown Prince of Asgard, defeater of the Chitauri, beloved in both the realm eternal and this mortal one.

           Perhaps that was all Thor wanted. To see Loki and make him have these thoughts. _Look where you are brother; see where your actions have taken you._

           Loki’s eyes pricked with tears and he desperately forced them away. Idiot. What’s there to mourn? Certainly there was no one else who mourned who he used to be.

           A new realization tore through his brain: Fury was watching. Fury, who had watched him as he was re-made, who had personally ensured that Loki knew his place. Fury, who was waiting for Loki to make a mistake that would cost him the safety of Stark’s tower. A shudder ran through him as Thor walked slowly closer.

           Loki knew his place. He knew his place, he knew his _place_ , and he wasn’t going to go back there, he wouldn’t. He was going to be good. He was going to behave for this guest as he would for Master Stark and Fury would know he knew his place, even before his once-brother. Loki would pass this test. He had to.

           Thor could surely see him now, perhaps fifteen feet away when he slowed to a stop, boots deep in Stark’s carpet. Thor’s boots had flakes of dried mud on them; his boots were perpetually muddy. Loki used to accuse him of being God of Mud Puddles. The carpet would be dirty now, footsteps from the balcony. Loki would have to vacuum later. Clean the mud from Thor’s boots. Loki could feel his thoughts getting giddy. He tried to stop them.

           “Brother?” Thor’s voice was soft. It echoed across memory, the gentle rasp that haunted Loki in his nightmares, the sound the knife had made when Loki stabbed him in the gut…

           Loki didn’t respond. They weren’t brothers. They weren’t equals. They never had been.

           “Loki,” Thor tried, “Please rise.” The gentleness of his tone was terrible. Worse than anger, worse than indifference. Loki had to remember his place. This gentleness was not for him. It was for a figment of Thor’s imagination, a _good_ Loki, who had never existed.

           Thor’s words were a command couched in a request. But Loki didn’t rise to his feet. Instead he rose up onto his knees, hands pulled behind his back, head bowed, proper form for a thrall. He could see Mjolnir dangling from Thor’s hand, hanging near his knees, gleaming with its starry sheen. This had to be real. His memory couldn’t recapture such a subtle detail.

           “Brother, why do you kneel?”

           Loki understood the confusion creeping into Thor’s tone, even though Thor knew he was a prisoner here. Loki had never knelt to him. Never once had he placed himself beneath Thor in such an obvious way. Even imprisoned in Asgard he had refused to grant the crown prince any of the respect his title should have afforded. Loki had been as unyielding as steel, the acid to Thor’s honey, the second son who wouldn’t give up his own claim to the throne. Thor didn’t see yet that this was not that Loki.

           “Thralls must always kneel before the Crown Prince of Asgard.” Loki was amazed at how smooth his own quiet voice sounded.

           For a moment it was silent. Then Thor laughed, deep inside his chest. “I see! You jest! Release the illusion brother, where are you really?”

           Thor turned, scanning the room. Loki felt as though ice had consumed his heart. Jest? Illusions? How could Thor not know that his magic had been stripped from him? Or was this intentional cruelty, salt in Loki’s wounds?

           No, his reaction seemed genuine, and the second glimpse he snuck of Thor’s face showed someone too eager to be proven wrong, to see something other than the truth kneeling on the carpet in front of him.

           “I do not jest, your highness.” He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want what he knew was coming, what he could feel building in the air inside the penthouse. Cruel this was. Cruel to them both if Thor was being honest now. And Loki had no reason to suspect that he wasn’t. Thor had always been a poor actor.

           Thor froze. Loki could feel his stare and he wanted to fall back to the carpet, to curl away from his scrutiny but he could not. He’d been told to rise.

           Now Thor was coming closer and closer and his hand was moving and suddenly it was on Loki’s head, brushing ever so gently against the thin layer of dark hair that had regrown since Fury had shaved him nearly bald.

           “Your hair…” Thor’s voice was caught somewhere between disbelief and horror. It was a crime to cut the hair of the royal family. And a shaved head in Asgard signified enslavement.

           Suddenly Thor’s fingers went to the collar at Loki’s neck. “What is this?” He growled and Loki prayed he wouldn’t tug on it, holding himself perfectly still beneath Thor’s grasp.

           “The collar binds me to these rooms. If I attempt to escape it will electrocute me.” Loki felt distant, strangely calm. This was his reality; Thor was just a momentary intrusion upon it. Thor’s hand immediately left the collar and he stepped back.

           “But you are… you are alright? You are unharmed, yes?”

           Oh norns he had no answer. To say yes would be a lie. He shouldn’t lie to his betters. But he didn’t want to speak, to tell Thor what had been done to him.

           “So long as I remain obedient I am unharmed.” He managed honesty but it thrust the conversation in yet another direction he didn’t wish to go.

           “Obedient?” Thor scoffed. “When have you ever been…” And now he could feel Thor’s gaze again, the sudden weight of the realization that Loki had not moved, that he was still kneeling before Thor, that he’d been speaking only when spoken to.

           “Loki stand up.” The command was quiet but there was anger beneath the words. Directed at what Loki could not say.

           He pulled himself to his feet as fluidly as he could manage, willing his limbs not to shake, keeping his hands clasped behind his back, a proper attention to face the Crown Prince with.

           But then Thor was seizing his left hand, pulling it to his side so quickly Loki almost didn’t see him shift. He’d forgotten how Asgardians moved. How it was to be more than mortal. And Loki wanted nothing more than to tear his hand away, to run because he knew what Thor would see and Thor wouldn’t just sense the meaning of the runes; he would read them.

           Thor stared and the grip on Loki’s hand was tightening almost painfully and then he grabbed the other hand as well, turning Loki’s wrists to he could see it all. Cursed. Liar. Betrayer. Kin-slayer. Hated. Unloved. Pathetic. A full of row of insults wrapped around the top of each wrist, above the curse itself: With these words of truth you are bound as weak and powerless as the mortals you tried to destroy. You are hereby stripped of your title, your immortality, and your magic. And you shall never return to Asgard, on penalty of death.

           Thor’s hands were shaking and Loki could feel him pressing the bones in Loki’s hands together. Thor could snap his arms like twigs if he chose. Loki hoped he realized that.

           Finally Thor let go of them. “I didn’t know. I swear Loki, I didn’t know that your sentence…”

           Thor trailed off and a tiny, bitter part of Loki wanted to laugh. You didn’t know what? That it would be permanent? That it was cruel? That it would cut him off from everything he’d ever known and ensure that he could never return to his former life? Thor hadn’t wanted to know. And there was little he could have done if he had. Odin had made up his mind before Loki ever arrived on Asgard for sentencing. Nothing could have changed it.

           Another, kinder part of Loki wanted to reassure Thor. To pretend he’d be alright, that he was okay. But lying was forbidden and he wasn’t good at it anymore anyway.

           Suddenly Thor lunged forward and he was wrapping his arms around Loki and drawing him into his chest and Loki couldn’t move, could scarcely breathe. He could feel his ribs straining under the pressure, couldn’t even try to return the hug. He could only wait and breathe in the soothing scent of leather, musk, and lightning that was Thor.

           Loki couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged Thor. Or hugged anyone really. Thor had always been generous that way, forever clasping people on the shoulder or tousling their hair or clapping them on the back. Loki had always hated it. He’d spin and dodge and ignore Thor’s slightly hurt looks. Loki didn’t like being touched. It made him feel caged, captured, his personal autonomy impinged upon.

           But he didn’t feel like that right now. He felt like he was being cradled, shielded from the world. He felt like Thor was pouring his wordless anger and sympathy and love into him. He felt warm and weak and yet somehow slightly better for no real reason. He also felt like bursting into tears but he was ignoring that particular feeling. He had to stay in his role. Which was that of thrall, servant to the Crown Prince.

           Thor shifted and Loki could sense that he was about to start scheming to rescue Loki, to try and somehow magically fix things. Don’t try, he wanted to say. You’ll only make things worse. But that would be talking out of turn.

           Thor’s enormous arms were slowly releasing him and he could breathe again and his legs were holding him steady, no quivering knees. But as Loki stood there with Thor’s gaze upon him he had no idea what he was going to do next. No idea at all.

 

           **So I don't know how you guys feel about Thor but I actually like him quite a bit. He's like an aggressive teddy-bear. Actually scratch that, that sounds creepy. He's more like a friendly lion. Like he's adorable and you know he's nice most of the time and might even let you pet him but if you piss him off... you might lose a limb. I debated a lot on whether I'd write a nice Thor or a dark Thor and nice Thor won. Because I like Thor too much to make him meaner than he already can be on accident (because he is kind of a dick sometimes, let's be honest). Plus I like him being all horrified on Loki's behalf and this fic really needed a hug in it (or I just wanted a hug because I've been watching Tokyo Ghoul and everything is darkness and look sometimes people just need hugs!!). I hope it wasn't too much fluff. Does this even count as fluff? Or is it just more angst in disguise? I don't know anymore. Regardless I hope you liked it! Please let me know what you thought: did you want dark Thor? Do you want me to have Thor destroy Loki next chapter? Are you upset that there's no Tony in this chapter? I'm having a heck of a time making decisions lately people I tell you what. And things are only going to get crazier from here. Feel free to give me your suggestions for how the rest of this interaction should go because they can't be any weirder than the one I've started writing next!**


	25. Parley

           **I'm not dead! Ta da! I have a bright shiny new chapter that got way longer than I meant it to and took forever to write! Also it involves a lot of dialogue and dialogue is not really my strongest suit, so I hope it's at least passable. Let me know if you have any dialogue tips/suggestions...**

 

           “I tried to see you.” Thor looked vaguely lost, as if he didn’t know what to do with his arms now that he was no longer wrapping them around Loki.

           “I knew they wouldn’t let me during your trial, but then after it was over no one would speak of you or your sentence. I knew you’d been banished, mother told me that much, but no more.” Loki closed his eyes. Frigga knew his sentence. He wondered what she thought.

           Thor noticed his reaction. “She was distraught. She would hardly leave her chambers. And her and father…” Thor trailed off but Loki could remember how cold and quiet the palace became when Frigga was upset.

           “When no one would tell me of your sentence I left Asgard. I visited Vanaheim, Alfheim, even Svartalfheim, but there was no word of you. So I returned to Midgard. And there was still no word of you here but… It was nice to feel needed.” Thor gave him a somewhat guilty look.

           Loki didn’t know what to say. He was glad that Thor hadn’t asked him a direct question that would have compelled him to reply. Frigga was distraught? Why? For losing a troublesome son who had given her mainly pain and gray hairs? And Thor… Thor had willingly banished himself. From the golden city where everyone loved him, where he could have anything he asked for. Instead he wandered around the nine realms looking for Loki, who at their last parting had tried to kill him. It didn’t make any sense.

          Thor laid a heavy hand on Loki’s shoulder once more. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to find you, Loki. I didn’t want to leave things the way they were. I should have helped you long ago. I should have caught you when you fell from the Bifrost. I wasn’t listening to you then; I couldn’t see past my own anger to the hurt and disbelief you must have felt. I never wanted any of this.” He gestured at Loki, at the manacles and the shaved head and the collar.

          Thor was apologizing to Loki. For not seeing him. Even though it was part of Loki’s legal sentence. Even though Thor had been purposefully left in the dark and prevented from finding him. Loki felt something aching in his chest. Was this actually happening?

          “How touching.”

          Thor whirled, Mjolnir in hand and Loki flinched back into the wall. Then Stark stepped out from the hallway and Thor’s grip on Mjolnir loosened just slightly. He kept himself between Loki and Stark and Loki felt the ache near his heart grow even stronger.

           Stark was looking at Loki oddly and suddenly Loki went cold. He’d forgotten himself. He swept into a bow, as low as he could go without falling, cursing inwardly. Stark was watching. Fury was watching. And Thor was watching. This interaction was going to kill him. He could feel Thor staring at him as he straightened.

           Stark sighed dramatically. “I was looking forward to a quiet lunch.”

           “My apologies, master. Would you like me to—” Stark waved a hand and Loki fell silent.

           “Unfortunately I think we’re going to have to talk first.”

           Stark stepped closer and Thor noticeably shifted in front of Loki. Loki felt like he was standing on a wire strung over the depths of Hel. On one side was Stark, his Master, the one to whom he owed his escape from his torturers’ lair. On the other was Thor, his Crown Prince, ex-brother. He owed obedience to both and he could feel the tension in the air between them. He didn’t know what kind of relationship they had with each other, but Thor was clearly not happy with Loki’s condition and Stark appeared to be the source of that mistreatment, even though he actually wasn’t and Loki didn’t know what he’d do if they started fighting. Norns have mercy on him.

           “Parley?” Stark queried, grinning.

           “I’m here to see my brother, Stark, not you.” Thor’s voice was close to a growl.

           Stark’s grin dimmed a tiny bit. “Looks like you’ve already seen _and_ felt him up. Satisfied?”

           Tiny sparks of lightning played around Thor’s fingers. “Satisfied? How should I be satisfied when I finally find my brother and he’s in shackles, treated as a thrall? You’ve fought by my side for months and yet you’ve kept this from me?”

           Thor was roaring by the end and Loki was trembling but Stark looked remarkably unruffled. “I only did what I had to do.”

           In an instant Thor went from standing in front of Loki to towering over Stark. The mortal didn’t even flinch. “What you _had_ to do? You _have_ to keep Loki collared like an animal? _Have_ to have him cook and clean and bow and scrape for you?”

           Thor sounded outraged and oddly Stark’s cheeks did appear somewhat red. Loki felt like an outside observer listening to them argue about things that didn’t really matter. Stark didn’t beat him or torture him. Thor was fighting over an offense to a pride that no longer existed.

           Stark seemed flustered by the argument however. “The collar is only a security precaution. And Fury is the one who wants him bowing and scraping…”

           “Security precaution? Have you not read the runes on his wrists? He’s not a threat to anyone!”

           Stark looked genuinely surprised, glancing over at Loki’s hands. Loki fought the urge to hide them behind his back. “I didn’t realize there was anything there to read. Fury told me the tattoos keep his magic under wraps but Jarvis didn’t mention anything legible in his scans.”

           “Apologies, Master Stark. They do not match any known codices.” Jarvis sounded disappointed. He also sounded oddly frayed and Loki wondered how Thor’s lightning had affected the house.

           “It’s not your fault Jarv, they’re aliens.” Stark waved a hand.

           Thor was still staring at Stark with a frightening coldness. “You could have asked me. you could have trusted me. Instead you torture a prisoner who was already bound and helpless. Both his magic and his immortality have been stripped from him. He is banished from Asgard. And this curse is as permanent as magic can be made to be. That alone is a terrible punishment and then for you to treat him—” Thor’s words cut off with a strangled sound of anger as his hands formed into fists. Loki could feel the pressure in the air, the quiet before the storm.

           Stark raised his hands placatingly. “I really didn’t know, okay? Honestly I didn’t want to be involved at all. You can ask him yourself. I only have him here because the alternatives were even worse.”

           Thor didn’t relax his fists but he didn’t attack either. “I will give you this Stark: as insufferable and impetuous as you might be, I have not generally known you to be a liar.” Thor then turned to Loki and waited for several seconds before realizing Loki wasn’t going to confirm anything without being asked a direct question. The realization flicked across his face in a deep sadness. It almost tempted Loki to speak out of turn. Almost.

           “Is what he says true, brother?”

           “Yes, your majesty. Master Stark rescued me from a place of suffering and pain. I am indebted to him.” Loki was staring at the carpet. The gold shimmered a little as the threads stirred. Beautiful.

            “Where was he, before he came here?” Thor’s voice was sharp as he turned back to Stark. “Who tortured him?”

           Stark hesitated and Loki wondered what he would say. Stark had a partnership with S.H.I.E.L.D, frail as it sometimes seemed. Loki understood, on one level, that S.H.I.E.L.D did many good things for Midgard. They were the main reason Loki’s invasion had failed; they created the Avengers. But on a different level Loki wanted to see Thor raze them to the ground for what they’d done to him.

           “They were Hydra agents.”

           Loki admired Stark’s neat twisting of the truth. He’d known when Stark offered him that drink so long ago that he and Iron Man had a few things in common, even if it was only an ability to infuriate others.

           “Fury showed me what was happening to him and even though I’m not a fan of your stepbrother’s, I mean, that’s probably understatement of the year, I also couldn’t just let him be tortured. So I—”

           “Where are they?” Thor growled. Loki could see white on Thor’s knuckles as they gripped Mjolnir. “Tell me where to find these scum and I will strike them so that their blood boils in their veins and they die like the miserable cowards they are!”

           Stark actually looked cautious for the first time. Loki wondered if Stark had ever seen Thor truly angry. Probably not. Or probably not without being comfortably sheathed in his metal armor.

           “Um I don’t really have a location per se... Fury did all the rendezvousing, very cloak and dagger stuff. And really I think there are bigger issues here like, ‘where can Loki live that isn’t Tony’s house’?”

           Thor stared at Tony. Tony backtracked. “Not that I mind watching him! It’s just, now that you know he’s here, can’t you just, and I’m only spit-balling here, sneak him back into Asgard? Or take care of him yourself? Fury was against that because he thought you’d let him go, but if the magical tattoos are permanent it’s not like Loki can do much damage here. I mean in cases like this doesn’t family normally assume custody anyway?”

           Mjolnir drooped a little in Thor’s hand. “I know no way of returning him to Asgard.” Thor admitted. “Loki was the only person I knew who could walk the branches of Yggdrasil without catching Heimdall’s gaze. And I have been… technically I was forbidden to see him.”

           Loki couldn’t help starting in surprise. Thor had made it sound as if Loki’s location was merely secret to everyone, not as though Thor had actually been forbidden to find him.

           He could feel Thor’s gaze on him but Loki didn’t want to meet the blue sadness he knew he’d find there.

           “I may have been a little too insistent on asking after you and it my have… raised Odin’s ire.” Loki flinched. Thor had angered Odin enough that he had ordered Thor not to look for Loki. He would have paid to see that fight once, but now he was very glad he’d missed it.

           “Not that it matters, brother!” Thor insisted, seeing Loki’s trembling reaction. “The All-Father can’t truly prevent me from visiting you.” He turned back to Stark. “But if I were to take Loki into my care… it would be an insult grave enough that it might draw Odin himself to Midgard.”

           “Why would it matter if Odin came to Midgard? I mean I know he’s king and stuff, but how is that a game-changer?”

           The incredulous expression on Thor’s face conjured the urge to laugh somewhere deep and hidden inside Loki. He smothered that urge.

           “Odin’s magic is what binds Loki now! He is almost certainly the most powerful mage alive in any of the nine realms. And if I brought his wrath to Midgard… it would be disastrous for both myself and Loki.”

           “He would punish both of you? For hanging out with each other? Even though you’re brothers?”

           Loki wondered if Stark was really this ignorant or if the royal families on Midgard were just more forgiving than their Asgardian counterparts. He also wanted to remind them both that he and Thor were not brothers. They never had been. It was hard to hear Thor using that word, as though nothing had changed, as though they were still young and naïve.

           Loki had only ever been Odin’s pawn, a way of making Thor shine brighter, against Loki’s darkness. Thor had to have realized that. Thor couldn’t have forgotten either that Loki had purposefully attacked Thor’s precious Midgard, that he’d tried to kill Thor more than once, that he’d told him he hated him… Certainly Thor could only be using the word to mock him. Because they were the farthest thing from brothers.

           But Thor had hugged him, a small part of his brain argued. Thor had looked for him.

           No, he was looking for the old Loki, his prison brain answered. That hug was for him. Not for this broken, stunted Loki. He was not Thor’s brother. He was not Thor’s equal. He was a thrall and that embrace had not been for him.

           Thor had apparently shaken off his surprise at the question. “I would be blatantly disregarding a direct order from the king. Loki’s place in our family no longer matters to him. Loki has been sentenced for his crimes and in Odin’s view… he is only a criminal.”

           In _Odin’s_ view? Was Thor trying to imply that Loki _wasn’t_ only a criminal? That Odin was wrong? But the All-Father had traded his eye for wisdom; Loki had proven himself irreparably flawed, beyond redemption... Yet the same small part of Loki that wanted to be Thor’s brother clung to the hope in those three words.

           “So basically, I’m stuck with him.” Stark sighed. Thor looked offended.

           “Has Loki been disobedient? Does he _force_ you to use that collar around his neck to bring him to heel? Is this such a _hardship_ for you Stark, having my brother serve you?”

           Loki hadn’t heard such venom in Thor’s voice in a long time. Thor sounded almost like… Loki.

           “That’s not what I meant. Just… hold on a second. Jarvis, it’s time.”

            “Yes Master Stark.”

            Thor glared at Stark. For a moment it seemed like nothing was happening. Then a very gentle hum filled the air.

           Stark visibly relaxed. “Jesus, this is a hassle. Okay, we can speak freely now, Jarvis is blocking every kind of listening and video device known to man and feeding it doctored footage. I just had to get enough talking out of the way for him to piece together a good facsimile. The moment you broke in he shorted out all of the devices on this floor, making it seem as though your surge caused it, but obviously they would recover eventually and we can’t have this conversation leaking.”

           “Who’s listening?” Thor had stopped looking angry and started looking confused. Loki already had a guess, which Stark quickly confirmed.

           “Fury, mainly. Other people could be too I guess, but he’s the only one I’m worried about at the moment.”

           “I thought you said Director Fury was the one who brought my brother to you. He was part of his rescue was he not?”

           Stark scoffed. “Sure. He helped me rescue him. After he let him spend a good two years getting the shit kicked out of him.”

           Loki flinched. Thor looked horrified. “He knew?”

           “Of course he knew! S.H.I.E.L.D makes the NSA look like a bunch of eight graders hacking each other’s’ Facebook feeds!”

           Thor and Loki gave him equally blank looks. Stark waved an impatient hand at them. “He planned this whole thing. He wanted Loki out of his way and he wanted me distracted from whatever creepy plan S.H.I.E.L.D is cooking up next and I’m not going to lie, it worked for a little bit.”

           Stark was looking at Loki almost… apologetically? “I know I can be an asshole. I like to think it’s at least a little endearing. But I’ll be damned if anyone can _order_ me to be an asshole.”

           “What are you talking about, Stark?” Loki realized he had missed the rough sound of Thor’s impatient confusion. He just wished he was less confused than Thor when he was hearing it.

           “Fury is trying to blackmail me into treating Loki like shit. He says that if I don’t keep reindeer games nice and beaten down he’s going to take him back to that hellhole they were keeping him in before. But nobody gets to give me ultimatums.”

           Loki shivered, both at the threat and at the anger in Stark’s voice. As much as he wanted Stark’s kindness, wanted him on his side, he didn’t want Stark to anger Fury. He didn’t know who would win. If they fought all Loki could see was himself losing the fragile peace he’d found here, as shitty as it may be by Stark’s high standards. He didn’t want that.

           Ribbons of pure white lightning were running across Mjolnir. Loki watched them dance. “Why would Fury do such a thing?”

           “I don’t know his end game yet. Like I said, so far I think he’s trying to distract me and it’s been working. But he can’t hear us right now; he won’t know what I’ve told you. Tell me, how did you find out Loki was here?”

           “Barton told me. He said you were hiding Loki from me, torturing him.” Loki was amazed Thor hadn’t attacked Stark outright when he’d entered.

           Stark rolled his eyes. “They must’ve thought you were stupid enough to attack me in my own tower.”

           Thor looked a little ashamed.

           Tony’s eyebrows hit his forehead. “Seriously Thor? You were going to attack me in my own tower? You didn’t think I might’ve upgraded security since the last time an Asgardian tore through my penthouse like a tornado?”

           “The windows broke easily enough.” Thor muttered.

           Tony made a hand gesture and suddenly darts and missiles were bursting from hidden panels in every wall. “Next time just fucking knock, okay?” He nudged a tiny piece of glass with his shoe. “Stop breaking my goddamn windows.”

            Thor nodded sheepishly.

           “Anyway, luckily you gave me a second to explain myself. Because if you had swept in here and stolen Loki away, two things could’ve happened. One: The All-Daddy jumps down here from his throne and thrashes you both into submission, and possibly me too, just for kicks.” Thor looked aghast at Stark’s nickname for Odin. Loki would’ve laughed, in another life. “Or two: the Avengers hunt you down and Fury throws Loki back into bloody cement-land, this time with a slightly better excuse about him being a flight risk.”

           Thor nodded. Loki tried very hard not to imagine either of those scenarios.

           “What I want to do now is create a new option. Since you arrived and were all lovey-dovey with Lokster.” Loki wondered what Stark had against using people’s real names. “Fury might try to play it like you were trying to rescue him and I’m being too soft on him and Loki’s going to try to pull shit so he needs to go back in the box before that can happen.”

           “I wouldn’t allow that to happen.” Thor rumbled.

           “You can’t fight off an army by yourself.”

           Thor growled and a flurry of sparks fell to the carpet.

           “Okay, maybe you could, but not without attracting Odin’s attention. And what would you do if they called in the other Avengers to fight you? Would you be okay with hurting them too?”

           That sobered him. Tony continued on. “I want to play this in a way Fury doesn’t predict: you support Loki’s imprisonment.”

           Thor’s gaze snapped to Tony. “Tread carefully, Stark.”

           “I’m not saying you _actually_ agree with how he’s been treated recently. I’m saying that you pretend, for the next hour or so, that you do. You treat him the way Fury wants him to be treated: like dirt.”

           Loki felt himself sinking deeper into the carpet. Thor looked both unhappy and confused. “What purpose would that serve, other than hurting Loki?”

           How could Thor still take that protective tone with him? He _was_ a criminal. He was scum. This treatment was no more than he deserved. And Loki would gladly endure it to save himself a return to that prison. It wouldn’t even pay part of the debt he owed to Thor, for trying to take Thor’s life.

           “It takes away any reason for Fury to re-imprison Loki. It buys us time. I don’t intend to keep playing this shitty game the one-eyed bastard’s invented. I’m going to figure out what Fury’s up to and I’m going to put an end to it and hopefully figure out other arrangements for your brother. Because I mean, he still is a convicted felon; I’m not arguing that he goes scot free after this.”

            “How are you going to stop Fury?” Thor’s hand was resting on Loki’s shoulder again, absently rubbing the knot of his shoulders. It made Loki want to weep.

           “He may be better than the NSA but Jarvis is the best spy in the business. The only issue is that S.H.I.E.L.D has their own servers and they’re not exactly easy access. But I’ll figure it out. We’re going to find out what he’s been trying to distract me from and we’re going to blow that sucker open. And hopefully whatever we find can bring the other Avengers around to the Save the Loki campaign and find a solution together.” Stark looked at Loki and grinned. “See, it’s like Save the Whales, only you endangered yourself.”

           No one laughed and Stark looked a little put out. Thor looked at Stark for several moments, mistrustfully. Then he sighed. “I dislike this. All of this. Deception has never been a strength of mine...” Thor’s gaze hardened. “But I will see those who harmed by brother pay. We will not be pawns in some mortal plot. Tell me what I have to do.”

           Stark nodded solemnly. “Loki, go to the library and stay there until I come get you. We need your reactions to be genuine.”

           Loki nodded and rose to his feet. He could no longer rely on his own acting abilities; he had to rely on Thor’s now. Thor had never been much of an actor growing up, but his time on Midgard had certainly changed him. Loki could only hope that this would be convincing enough for Fury. And not too painful for himself.

 

            **So remember last chapter where you guys all commented "we love nice Thor, so glad you gave Loki someone in his corner, please keep him around?" Well my muse decided to compromise and hide nice Thor inside evil Thor. XP But I think the story logic makes sense? I tend to write in a flow where my characters just do the next thing I think they'd do and this felt like the next logical step somehow? So tell me what you think. Is this a terrible idea? Is this a deliciously evil idea? Do you want me to scrap this chapter and come up with something else? This one was definitely a struggle for me and I'm still not 100% thrilled with it, but I think some of my quips are decent and it's moving the plot along so... I'm giving it to you now. I'd love some feedback in return! <3**

 


	26. Masquerade (?)

          **Happy summer reading everyone! Here's the next cheerful installment in my definitely all sunshine and rainbows fic!**

 

           Loki had fifteen minutes of peace. Except it wasn’t peaceful.

           Any other time he would have enjoyed being in the quiet library, even though he no longer dared to touch the books. It was soothing being surrounded with wisdom, reminded that there were ways to be remembered even long after death.

           But right now he just stared blankly at the shelves, trying not to hear the murmured conversation taking place in the living room.

           His heart was racing. He tried to slow it, breathing deeply, but it fought him. He wondered if this was part of losing his immortality too, the way his heart pounded sometimes and wouldn’t quiet for him. The way his hands trembled. Was this fragile form part of the reason he broke? Or was breaking the reason his body disobeyed him?

          There was nothing to fear really. Thor and Stark wouldn’t hurt him more than he’d already been hurt. It would just be Thor seeing his brokenness. A revelation, not a change.

          All he had to do was obey. The simplest job really. If only it didn’t make his gut feel like it was on fire. Maybe there was another way they could trick Fury, something easier…

          He drew only blanks.

          “Master Stark is calling for you, Loki.” Jarvis chimed from the ceiling.

          Loki nodded. It was time.

          Stark was still talking to Thor when Loki emerged. “I don’t think Jarvis can stall much longer. You’re ready, right?”

          Thor sighed. “I’m ready to be finished with this matter. As to whether I can succeed in fooling Fury… I hope so.”

          Thor heard Loki arriving and turned to him. Loki flinched under the full weight of that bright blue gaze. “It pains me to do this to you, Loki. Are you sure that we should use this deception? We could yet invent some better plan…”

          Loki wished he had something else to offer, but there was nothing. Stark needed access to Fury’s servers but right now they couldn’t gain it. If Fury saw Thor treating Loki kindly then at best Fury would come for another “friendly visit” to put Loki in his place and at worst he might take Loki away from Stark. And _that_ Loki could not have. So he shook his head. “The plan is sound.”

          It was only one of his old fears come true: Loki kneeling at Thor’s feet, his thrall. He wondered how he could still feel any hesitancy. He had done far worse in S.H.I.E.L.D’s dungeons. Now he just had a part to act as much as Thor. It wasn’t even really an act.

          Thor’s arms were suddenly encircling him again, threatening to crack his sternum. It was not as comforting this time. Loki could feel Stark watching. And he knew what was to come. He couldn’t pretend that Thor stood between him and the world, his big brother and savior. Loki was alone. As he should be.

          He deserved this. This was the punishment Odin and the Security Council had intended. A broken Loki who would keep his head down, who would serve, never to _be_ served again. A thrall who would never dare to threaten the peace of Asgard, Midgard, or any of the nine realms. He was bound by much more than Thor’s arms here.

          Thor released him and he and Tony settled awkwardly onto the furniture. Thor sprawled across the couch, Tony lounged in one of the chairs. Loki dropped to kneel at Tony’s right.

          “Alright, we’re ready to transition Jarv.”

          “Yes, Master Stark.” The humming slowed and then stopped with the faintest of clicks. Loki doubted Stark even heard it.

          Thor spoke broke the uneasy silence.

           “Have I mentioned, Friend Stark, how quiet it’s been since Loki’s departure from our realm? The first real peace we’ve had in a long time.” Thor chuckled and his voice was a little stiff but Loki was stunned at how cold it sounded. “He’s always been a nuisance, even since childhood. I’m amazed to see him so… docile.”

          Thor looked at him with a kind of cruel curiosity that Loki would have thought him incapable of displaying. Then Thor turned back to Stark, completely ignoring Loki. “You mentioned lunch?”

           “Yeah, I was about to chow down before you got here. Loki, make us some sandwiches. And bring some beer too. You like beer, right?”

           Thor nodded his assent. Loki could’ve answered for him. He’d seen Thor down entire barrels of ale. Loki rose from his knees and hurried to the kitchen. This would be the easy part.

          He could hear Thor and Stark continuing to chat but he didn’t eavesdrop. He focused on preparing the sandwiches. Luckily Jarvis had recently been shopping and they had plenty of bread and meat. Thor could eat a platter by himself.

          He made roast beef, turkey, and ham sandwiches, easily identifiable with colored toothpicks. Then he pulled down Stark’s giant glass beer mugs and poured a bottle of ale into each. He also opened a bag of pretzels and poured them into a bowl. Everything was ready almost too quickly.

          Loki went back to the living room, keeping his head respectfully lowered. “Where would you prefer to dine, Master?”

          “I think we’re comfortable here.”

          Loki nodded demurely, inwardly wincing. If anything spilled it would be a lot of work to clean the long carpet. He went back to the kitchen and loaded everything onto a large circular tray, including condiments and knives. It was a strain but he could carry it all in one trip.

          Re-entering the living room he faced another challenge. There was nowhere to set the tray. There was only one small end table near Thor and it barely fit the lamp that was sitting on it. So Loki came to stand between Thor and Stark and handed them each their mug of beer, then offered the tray first to Thor, as the guest.

          Thor piled three sandwiches onto a plate and poured a generous portion of the pretzels on as well. Stark took a single sandwich and a smaller pile of pretzels. Loki held the tray as they dressed their sandwiches and then remained standing between them, awkward and unsure.

          “You’re blocking my view.” Stark complained. Loki took a step back but Stark was already standing. “Here.” He grabbed the tray from Loki’s hands.

          “Get on your hands and knees.” Stark snapped impatiently.

          Loki obediently dropped to the carpet. He still didn’t know what was going on. Then suddenly he felt a cool weight settle onto his back and he knew. Stark had created a table.

           Heat rose in his cheeks at that realization. He was nothing more than furniture in the room. And shaky furniture at that. He had to work to keep still. With each breath he could feel the bowl and the sandwiches shift slightly.

           Thor laughed. “By the norns, he makes a fine table, does he not?”

           Loki couldn’t see it but he knew Stark was wearing his trademark smirk.

           “Very elegant limbs, I agree.” Stark chuckled. Loki felt like his face was on fire. In order to keep the platter steady his head had to remain down, his gaze focused on the carpet. In this position he couldn’t see more than Thor and Stark’s shoes.

          “I’m glad you’ve found a way to make Loki useful. Odin said many times he was only good for making trouble. But clearly he makes great sandwiches _and_ great furniture!”

          Stark grunted agreeably. “You should try his fajitas some time. And his hamburgers are delicious too, although they took a while to perfect, didn’t they Lokes?”

          “Yes Master.” Loki murmured. He remembered with shame the debacle of his first time cooking in the penthouse.

          “He burned them to charcoal.” Stark chuckled. Then his voice got serious. “At first I thought he might’ve done it on purpose.”

          Loki quivered. Thor leaned back on the couch, “That would be very like him.”

          “He swore it was an accident. And obviously I let him stay in spite of that mishap. He just needed a firmer hand.”

          Thor hummed agreement and then suddenly there was a snap and electricity shot through Loki. He bucked, felt the weight on his back shift and froze, carefully settling back onto his hands and knees. The bowl made a slight clinking sound as it set back down.

           Stark and Thor were both laughing. “I might have to do this more often,” Stark said, “ordinary tables aren’t nearly so interesting.”

          Thor reached over to Loki and plucked several more sandwiches from his back, making the platter slightly lighter but also off balance. He had to lower his right shoulder to stop the tray from sliding across his back, bending his elbow uncomfortably.

          Loki’s knees and palms were beginning to ache from pressing so deeply into the carpet but he continued to hold himself still. Stark came over for another sandwich and more pretzels as well. His boot grazed Loki’s wrist and he struggled to keep the platter from wobbling.

          Thor and Stark moved on to speaking of other things. Thor told Stark of Jane’s latest research and Stark told Thor about an upgrade to the suit he was working on. Loki began to get both bored and tired. His arms were beginning to tremble, making the sandwich plate click.

           Finally Stark sighed. “I’m out of beer.” He stood and lifted the platter from Loki’s back. “Put this away and bring us each another bottle.”

          “Yes Master.” Loki climbed to his feet. His hands were swollen and stiff but he took the platter carefully back to the kitchen and put the two leftover sandwiches into the fridge. He fished two more cold bottles of ale out and opened them before carrying them back. Again he filled Thor’s glass first, wishing his hands wouldn’t shake. Thor didn’t even look at him, just continued talking to Stark.

          It was both better and worse than Loki had imagined it would be. It was like he was invisible, just some faceless worthless servant like all the others who had served Thor in the palace on Asgard. There was no compassion, no hint of pity. Just Thor’s acceptance of his servitude as though it were a normal, expected thing. It was exactly as Fury would have wanted Loki treated. Possibly not even cruel enough.

          He went to Stark and filled his glass as well, then took the plates back to the kitchen along with the empties. He washed them quickly and put everything away. He didn’t want to go back to the living room. But that was his place, at Stark’s side, waiting obediently to serve him, even as furniture.

          Loki returned and lowered himself to his knees at Stark’s right side again, attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible.

          Of course Thor immediately focused on him again. “Has he learned any other tricks in your care, Stark?”

           Stark’s hand skimmed across Loki’s cropped hair as he sighed. “Unfortunately he’s not allowed to do much. Cooking and cleaning is all he’s really good for.”

          “Although…” A pretzel suddenly appeared between Stark’s fingers. “Hey Loki, sit!”

          For a moment Loki didn’t move, confused. Then he blushed as realized that Stark had thought of some tricks that Loki could indeed perform. Dog tricks.

          Loki hurried to pull his knees out from under him and sat on the carpet, cross-legged. Stark frowned at him. “No, sit like a proper pup, come on.”

          Oh. Loki lowered himself to all fours and then tried to sit back on his heels, his hips widening. His knees started aching immediately under the pressure. This was far worse than a kneel. Suddenly Stark’s hand was at his lips, holding the pretzel.

          Loki was actually hungry but his stomach churned as he took the pretzel gently from Stark’s hand with his teeth. It tasted of dry salt as he crunched it.

          “Good boy!” Stark praised, sarcastic venom evident just beneath the sugary sweet tone. He looked back at Thor. “We haven’t practiced, but he’s not too stupid, for a pet.”

          Thor was smiling and Loki’s feet were going numb and the room felt too warm. Stark had another pretzel in his hand. “Down, Loki!”

          This time Loki went immediately down onto his stomach. He expected the pretzel to come to him, but Stark was twirling it in a circle. “Now roll over!”

          Loki rolled onto his back, feeling terribly exposed. He didn’t know what to do with his arms so he tried to hold them the way a dog would, curled over his chest. He could hear Thor chuckling again.

          “Good pup.” Stark dropped the pretzel into Loki’s mouth. Loki didn’t dare move but it was hard to swallow on his back and the dry pretzel stuck to the roof of his mouth.

          “Last treat now,” Stark said in his frightening baby talk voice. “Loki, beg.”

           Loki remembered this one from his cell. From the muzzle and his wordless pleas for sustenance. He returned to his knees, his arms remaining curled, his gaze imploring upwards but not quite to Stark’s face. Stark waited and finally Loki knew what he wanted and whined softly. Stark’s dog.

           Stark grinned, all teeth, and gave him the final pretzel. He could barely swallow it down.

           “Not a bad show, huh?” Stark asked Thor. Loki remained on his knees, frozen, hoping he’d be forgotten, but knowing he wouldn’t. This was the point. They were doing this to fool Fury, right? Not to torture Loki. Not to make him feel less than human, a dog waiting for scraps from his master’s hand…

          “You know, there’s something we used to do when we were kids that I found quite entertaining.”

           Ice crept down Loki’s spine. Sparks were playing between Thor’s meaty fingers.

          “I gained my magic before Loki gained his. And until he could access his own seidr, Loki was wildly jealous.” Thor shuffled the sparks in his hands and Loki couldn’t look away. “So he would try to spy on me while I practiced it. And if I caught him…” Thor grinned. “Take your shirt off, Loki.”

          Loki peeled off his shirt, still kneeling at Stark’s side. Thor hadn’t done this to him in eons. He hadn’t been able to once Loki had his magic. Nor, Loki had hoped, would he have wanted to. Thor had sometimes been a cruel older brother when they were young. It was hard to remember that this was an act; that Thor had grown out of this.

          There was a cold breeze in the room and Loki was acutely aware of both Stark and Thor’s attention. Thor stood in front of him now, the sparks growing larger and larger in his hands, turning to true bolts of lightning. Then Thor flicked his wrists and the bolts leapt from his hands into Loki’s chest.

          Loki screamed. The lightning danced inside his skin, burning its way out through all four of his limbs, a wave of molten searing heat. He convulsed as it played within him, drawing its fractals patterns across his torso. He swayed on his knees, barely staying upright, watching the stream of electricity flow from Thor’s outstretched hands, glimpsing the cruel bent of his lightning blue eyes behind the intense brightness.

          Then mercifully Thor stopped. The lightning fell away. And left scorched into Loki’s skin were the beautiful radiating lines of the path the bolts had taken through him. The design wrapped across his torso and down each arm and even down, though Thor and Stark could not see it, his legs to each knee where the electricity finally escaped into the floor.

          When they were children Loki had been immortal. The pattern had lasted mere minutes on his skin, leaving no evidence for him to take to Frigga, sobbing.

          Now the burns continued stinging, tiny blisters rising where the damage went deepest. Loki was shaking and his breath came in shallow gasps. Stark reached out and touched Loki’s arm. Loki bit his tongue to keep from yelping.

          “It’s beautiful.” Stark murmured.

          “It’s too bad your clever collar cannot mark him so, isn’t it?”

          Loki hadn’t thought that the collar could have any redeeming qualities, but the fact that it didn’t burn and blister his skin in addition to electrocuting him now seemed merciful.

          “That it is.” Stark seemed entranced by the patterns on Loki’s arm for a moment. Then he gave Loki another nudge, “Loki, what do you say to our guest, for making you look so pretty?”

          That answer at least Loki knew. “Thank you, your majesty.” Loki gasped. He could feel sweat beading on his skin, stinging on his burns.

           Thor didn’t even look at him. “I commend you, Stark. Humility was always a virtue Loki thought other people should practice. But even his snake tongue seems truly tamed.”

          “More than _seems_.” Stark sounded smug and Loki knew he should be angry but instead he was just afraid.

          Stark pointed at the thin layer of mud drying to Thor’s boots. “You shouldn’t go out in public looking like that.”

          Loki could feel a pit opening in his stomach. “Go on Loki, make our guest look presentable. Put your tongue to its proper use.”

          There was a laughing tone to Stark’s voice but beneath it there was iron. “Yes master.”

          Loki crawled to Thor’s feet, his skin screaming with every movement. There was no pity in Thor’s eyes. In fact he looked completely relaxed. Except that Mjolnir was vibrating, almost imperceptibly.

          Thor lifted his right foot, a small mercy, that Loki wouldn’t have to flatten himself to the carpet and press his raw burnt skin to the floor. Loki knelt and gently took the boot into his hands. He could feel his cheeks flaming red as he bowed his head and opened his mouth.

          Lick. Thor’s boot tasted of salt and soil, only a hint of leather present beneath the grime. Lick. This time he scraped the mud a little more effectively, swallowing the silty substance. Lick. His tongue was already getting dry and he had only cleaned a small patch of the toe. Lick. He wondered if he had to do the bottom of the boots too. Or just the tops. Loki quailed. It would take an eternity to clean both. An eternity he remembered from that cold concrete room. Lick. He could feel Thor’s gaze on him, watching him clean his boots with his tongue. It made him want to curl up and die. Lick. Thor shifted his foot slightly as Loki began working his way toward the heel. Lick. A larger clump of mud came off in his mouth and he struggled not to spit it onto the floor. He had to chew it in order to continue, grit coating his mouth.

          “We don’t have all afternoon, Loki.” Stark snapped impatiently.

          “Yes, master.” Loki rasped. He licked faster at the soft leather, his tongue lapping around the heel and then finally coming up the inside of the sole and back to the toe where he’d started. He double-checked his work, swiping his tongue over a few stay dusty patches, anywhere that wasn’t damp and shining with his spit. Then before he could move to the bottom of the boot Thor set his foot down and raised the other. More mercy.

          Loki’s mouth was sandy and his tongue was beginning to sting. He felt waves of shame washing over him. This was how desperate he was to keep their favor. He would grovel at their feet, he would wash their boots with his tongue… he had told Stark he would do anything and he meant it. He belonged to them. This was what they asked and he had no right to question it, even as his stomach churned and his jaw began to ache. He was nothing and so this was nothing, just another task fit for a thrall.

          Stark’s voice came to him from far away, cooing. “That’s it, Loki, get in there nice and deep. You want your king to look his best, don’t you?”

          Loki bobbed his head in a stunted nod, his cheeks flaming again, his tongue remaining pressed to the boot. Thor chuckled, but it was dark and cold, “I’ve never seen him work so diligently in my life.”

           Loki couldn’t believe that this was the man who’d hugged him so fiercely less than an hour ago. In fact he was beginning to believe he’d hallucinated Thor’s entrance altogether. This scene made much more sense. Stark and Thor wouldn’t risk Fury’s wrath for him. He was a piece of furniture, a dog, a boot-licker, a thrall. They _wanted_ him like this, on his knees, serving. What motivation would they have to change it?

           Loki used his teeth to scrape away a particularly stubborn flake of mud, his cheek pressed against the leather. This was the only worth he had. Stark had said as much: cooking and cleaning. He had to do this well or they would give him back to Fury.

          He lapped desperately at the heel of Thor’s boot. Maybe he should ask to do the bottoms as well. That might please them. But he shouldn’t speak out of turn either. He worked his way back to the toe, carefully, thoroughly. The leather gleamed with his spittle. Thor set his boot down the moment Loki reached the toe again.

          Loki remained kneeling at Thor’s feet, waiting for them to inspect his work. Waiting for them to point out spots he’d missed. To command him to do it again but this time the bottoms too. It was never good enough; he remembered that from his cell, nothing he did could be—

          “Good job Loki.” Stark praised, an odd warble in his voice.

          Startled, Loki almost looked up. A little burst of warmth opened in his chest. Even if he had imagined the hug earlier he had pleased Stark now and that counted for something.

          He could feel muddy spit sticking to his chin and he wanted to wipe it away but he didn’t dare. Loki glanced over his work again. The boots did look much better.

          Suddenly Thor climbed to his feet. “Well, I had best be going now. Thank you for your hospitality, Stark. I may stop by again sometime; the food was excellent! As was the entertainment.” He flicked a spark towards Loki and chuckled when he flinched.

          “I’m doing a good enough job babysitting your brother?”

          Thor pointed at Loki, who was still kneeling beside the couch. “That is not my brother, Stark. How you treat your thrall is no business of mine.”

          Loki hadn’t thought he could feel any more shame but for a moment a wave of it burned through him with a hint of almost anger. Then he remembered. Thor was right. He was weak and broken. He was the cursed thrall of a mortal. If he had ever deserved the title of Thor’s brother, he certainly didn’t deserve it anymore.

          Thor hoisted Mjolnir. “Farewell, Friend Stark!”

          “See ya later, PointBreak.”

          Then Thor strode back to the kitchen. Loki imagined that he left the same way he’d come, through the broken window.

          Stark didn’t move for a moment. Then he finally turned back to Loki.

          “You can get up now.”

          Loki climbed to his feet, his skin twitching with the sting of each movement.

          “There’s some ointment in the kitchen under the sink. Put that on the worst of your burns. And then clean up the glass that’s everywhere. I’m going to have to call another contractor… damn him.”

          Stark walked away still muttering.

          Loki forced himself to ignore the pain radiating from his skin and walk carefully to the kitchen, avoiding the worst of the glass. Stark was kind, to let him treat his wounds before cleaning up the mess.

          He found the correct container and gingerly daubed the ointment over the worst of the burns. It didn’t eliminate the pain but it dulled it from a stabbing, burning sensation to a feeling of tight prickliness. Stark hadn’t said he had to redress so he didn’t. The longer he could go without fabric clinging to the blisters and chafing against the raw skin the better.

          Then he took the broom and got to work, carefully collecting all the shards of glass his not-brother had shattered.

 

          **Might've laid it on a little thicker than they were ready to handle, huh? What do you bet Barton gets ahold of this video somehow? :P It irks me that in the movies Thor's lightning never seems to leave marks on people. Real people struck by lightning get some weird, very unique scars. Lightning is dangerous folks.**

**On another note this is another one of those chapters I think would be very interesting from Tony's perspective. I'm still not going to write it but I know roughly what his thoughts would be. They'd start "okay this is shitty but it seems to be going alright. Thor's a better actor than I thought". Then they'd move to him getting angrier about having to do this and also him realizing a part of him enjoys the power trip which is disturbing and then him getting even angrier because now he's mad at both himself and Fury. Then during the final scene with Thor it'd shift to concern about Loki dissociating and Tony realizing how much this is hurting Loki and damaging what little trust they'd been building and him also seeing that Thor is barely keeping it together anymore, which is why Tony tells Loki "good job" because it's the closest he can get to reminding him that this is supposed to be an act even though he realizes Loki is not acting. And then Thor has to leave before he smashes something (although I think part of Thor definitely means the "that's not my brother statement") and Tony orders Loki away and gets a reeeeal stiff drink.**

**So there's your bonus content for the day, some authorial analysis! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you thought about the darkness level... every time it starts lightening up I start toning it down again...  
**

 


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